


High Spirits

by ReaperWriter



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Dead Files AU, F/M, InvestigatorEmma, Modern AU, PsychicKillian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:00:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3441305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReaperWriter/pseuds/ReaperWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Former homicide detective Emma Swan, forced to take a medical retirement due to a tragedy, is now barely scrapping by as a PI.  Killian Jones, former Navy Lieutenant, talks to dead people.  She's skeptical.  He's frequently inappropriate.  When TV executive Regina Mills throws them together for a travel themed ghost hunter show, she thinks they'll be ratings gold.  With a crew that includes on site producer Mary Margaret Blanchard, camera director David Nolan, and Ruby Lucas, Killian's friend and handler, what could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Long Con

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea where this came from. I had read joneskillian's fantastic "love is a ghost you can't control" and the idea of psychic Killian intrigued me. And apparently, I've been watching way too many episodes of Dead Files while sewing. There is more to come, but updating will depend on me getting my laptop at home to play with the internet. Feedback is welcome. Thanks to Adam and Eddie for their characters.

It really felt like the worst cliche in the world.  Emma Swan sat at her battered old desk, salvaged from an alley, between two mostly empty file cabinets in the tiny, cramped 3rd floor walkup office.  The area was low rent, but she wasn't expecting to be private eye to the stars.  She did expect to spend a lot of time following cheating spouses around.  Instead, she sat, looking through her accounts billable file and feeling the beginnings of an ulcer.

This was not supposed to be her life.  Emma had grown up in the system.  Opting out at 17, she had a scare involving an ex who left her holding.  She had skated charges, but the youthful offender diversion program she agreed to helped.  She got her GED and got into community college, then state school.  Working her ass off, she got done in three years with a degree in criminal justice.  She was accepted to the police academy, did incredibly well in patrol, and rocketed up the ranks.  

Graham Humbert, a few years ahead of her, had been a rock star of the detective squad, and had pushed them to bend the rules and let her sit her shield exam early.  She passed with flying colors, and her first day, he waved her to the desk facing his.  "Make me proud, rookie."

"Sure, old man."  And they started a partnership that spanned 3 years and the highest clearance rate in the state.  Until the day they had shown up to question a suspect and had been hit by sniper gunfire from his apartment.  Emma had stayed conscious long enough to radio for help, but the last thing she saw as she lay bleeding out on the sidewalk was the light go out of Graham's eyes.

Captain Lance was there when she woke up in the hospital.  He confirmed that Humbert was gone, killed in the line.  And he smiled sadly at Emma, explaining that her blown knee, even with the best possible care, would make her physically ineligible for reinstatement.  She would be medically retired at 28.

Now, 9 months later, she walked with barely a limp, except on cold and wet days (admittedly many in Boston).  She got her PI license and hung out a shingle.  And the cases had....trickled in.  Cheating husband here.  Adoptee looking for bio mom there.  Some regular side work from a journalist she knew.  But she was almost a month behind on her rent, and two on the heat, and unless something broke soon, she just might.

And then in walked this dame.  Okay, so maybe she had read one too many Sam Spade novels while recuperating.  Graham had left her his books in his will.  But the woman who knocked on the door was completely unexpected.  The suit she wore was tailored to within an inch of her life, the shoes were Jimmy Choo’s, and her hair could only have been styled at some place where a haircut cost more than Emma's rents combined.

"Can I help you?" She kept her tone neutral.  Work was work, after all.

“I’m looking for Emma Swan.”  The woman’s voice had the carefully clipped tones of someone who had any trace of an accent polished out of them by finishing schools.

“You’ve found her.”  She stood up and offered her hand to the woman, who looked at it briefly like it was something stuck to her shoe, then shook it.  “How can I help you?”

“It’s how I can help you, Miss Swan.”  The woman reached into a handbag that probably cost more than Emma’s car and pulled out a card, handing it to her.  “Regina Mills, VP of programming for the Adventure Channel.”

Emma glanced at the card, then looked up at the woman with an air of confusion.  “Adventure Channel?”

“We’re a subscription cable channel that focuses on adventure related programing.  Travel, daring jobs, that sort of thing.”  The woman sat on her guest chair, leading Emma to retake her seat.  “We have an idea for a new show, and I think that you might be just the person we are looking for.”

Emma found herself sighing, hard.  “Look, Miss Mills, I really don’t have any interest in doing some reality show where I track cheating spouses for everyone’s entertainment.”  She remembered Mrs. Baker, whom she had sat with as she cried last week, pictures of her husband and his assistant inflegrante on the desk in front of them.  “It’s a horrible thing for the non-cheating spouse.  It shouldn’t be televised.”

The woman laughed.  “You needn’t worry, Miss Swan.  That isn’t what we are looking for at all.”  Reaching in to her bag, she pulled out a file.  “Market research shows that programming of a…supernatural bent is driving market share, particularly among our competitor networks.  We have a pitch to create a show featuring a partnership of sorts between someone with the ability to see and speak to ghosts, and a trained investigator.  They would work separately, then meet up at the end to compare what they have learned.”

“To…wait, I am not sure I understand.  What do you want me for?”  Emma’s voice was a little incredulous.

“Simple.  You were a rising star in the police force here before you were injured.”  Regina smiled.  “You’re attractive, which won’t hurt with the male demographic.  Your job would be to investigate the known facts of a haunting.  What do the witnesses say?  Is there a history to the property?  Can we back up the local legend with facts?  Then you and our sensitive would meet up with the property owners and compare findings.  See if anything correlates.”

“Look, no offense Miss Mills, but this can’t work.”  Emma looked at the woman, really looked.  “Ghosts aren’t real.”

“Come, Miss Swan.”  Regina sat back and looked at her.  “You’ve never felt a chill entering somewhere?  Never seen anything you couldn’t explain?”

“There are a thousand explanations.  Psychics and ghosts aren’t one of them.”  Emma grimaced.  “Every psychic I’ve ever met was a two-bit huckster out to fleece people.  Grieving, hurting people.”

“Look, Emma.  May I call you Emma?”  Emma’s mouth stayed in a stormy line.  “I’ve met the sensitive we are bringing in for the show personally.  He’s…well, he’s something unique.  I think you two would work well together.”

“I don’t know, Miss Mills.”

“Regina.”  The woman leaned forward.  “Look, Miss Swan, I’ve done my homework.  You’re languishing here.  Work hasn’t been exactly beating down your door.  Do you even have an open case right now?”

Emma compressed her mouth into an even tighter line.  The woman wasn’t wrong, but knowing that it was easy to find out how poorly she was doing made her angry.

“Look, all I’m asking is that you give it a chance.  Meet our man.  Do a pilot with us.  If you hate it, if it doesn’t work, we let you go with a nice pay check.  No harm, no foul.”  The woman smiled almost predatorily.  “As I sign of good faith, I’d be willing to bring your rent up to date on your apartment and this place, and keep it up to date until we make a decision about the series.”

Emma sat back, closing her eyes for a moment.  It was a tempting offer.  If she didn’t come up with rent soon, she’d either have to cut loose the office and work out of her apartment.  Or let the apartment go and sleep in the office.  This way, she was covered for at least a month or two longer.  And with a steady pay check.  On the other hand, she remembered dealing with crazy Madam Zelda, who had conned the family of one of her victims into paying her ridiculous amount of money to help catch their daughter’s killer, leading to Emma and Graham having to chase down ridiculous lead after ridiculous lead.

But Graham was gone, and she was totally on her own.  “Fine.  We’ll try it once.  But there had better be an out clause in my contract.”

“Welcome aboard, Miss Swan.”  Regina stood.  “We’ll be in touch to set up a meeting with the show’s crew and Mr. Jones.”  With that, the woman was gone, and Emma was left to regret making deals with possible devils.  This was going to be a long few weeks.

*******

He really had no idea how Ruby had talked him into this.  He had never wanted fame or fortune or any of that out of what they did.  He had a pension from his service in HRM’s Navy and he had Liam’s death benefits, and he had always insisted that they only accept enough money to cover expenses.  But Ruby had sat him down and told him that doing this would increase who they could help.  With the network footing the bill for travel, they would no longer have to turn down jobs where the client couldn’t meet the travel and lodging honorarium.

Killian hadn’t realized that what he was seeing was the spirit world as a child.  He had thought that he had imaginary friends.  At least until his mother had passed of cancer when he was six, and he woke up the next night to her sitting by his bed.  His father had beat him bloody when he told him, angry and drunk and grieving, calling him a liar and a prat.  Liam had snuck into his room later and held him, stroking his hair.  He had believed his baby brother, but made him promise that from then on, he would only tell Liam what he saw.

Liam had taken over custody of him when his father split, and had joined the navy to support them both.  Killian idolized the man his brother had become and worked hard, following him as soon as he was old enough.  The ships they served on proved terribly interesting as the ghosts of past sailors would seek him out.  He kept a journal, carefully hidden, and would read books on the spirit world as he could.  Sometimes he could help them move on, which made him glad.  If he was known as something of an odd duck, well, it wasn’t the first time.

Then the worst had happened.  Their ship was sent on a mission against a group of Somali pirates…who it turned out had backing from some al-Qaeda off-shoot.  No one had been expecting small missile fire, and the ship took heavy damage and casualties.  He had ended up on the floor of cabin half blown apart, holding Liam as his life blood leaked out around the piece of shrapnel in his chest.  It was only when the corpsman was pulling him from the body that he realized his own left hand was horribly mangled.

He would see Liam often, in the corner of his hospital room: standing next to the Naval chaplain at the crematorium; in the kitchen of their shared flat.  Liam seemed worried for him, upset that his baby brother was now alone and at loose ends.  And then he had met Ruby.

She was tending bar at a pub, the odd American in England.  Rumor among the regulars was that she was a sweet girl, but a little touched in the head.  Claimed she was being haunted.  He had stayed late one night, finishing a pint in the old leather arm chair by the fire, forgotten, when he heard her say, “Please, Peter, not tonight.”

He turned to see a man standing beside her.  The spirit was a young man, maybe her own age, a few years younger than himself.  He had reached up and run his hand through her hair.  Not enough for her to feel the touch, but clearly enough to feel his presence.  She looked tired.

He stood and walked over to them, quietly.  “He died suddenly, didn’t he lass?”

She had yelped and turned, then shivered as her shoulder passed through part of Peter’s form.  “What the hell!?”

“Sorry.”  It was soft and rueful.  “I didn’t mean to startle you.  Peter.  Was he your husband or…?”

“Fiancé.”  Ruby was looking at him, wide eyed.  “You see him?”

“Aye.”  He looked at the man.  The spirit looked back, relieved.  “He’s with us.”

“God, I thought I was going crazy.”  Her voice shook.  “Is he…is he in pain?”

Peter shook his head.  “Can you hear me too?”  Killian nodded.  “Oh, thank god.  Can you tell her…tell her that I love her, and that I’m sorry.  That I should have listened to her and stayed home.  And that she should go back to the States.  Hanging around here isn’t going to bring me back.  She needs to get on with her life.”

Killian turned and looked at the girl, then relayed the message.  Her eyes welled with tears.  “Tell him I’m sorry.  I love him so much, and I shouldn’t have been such a witch.  I miss him.”

Peter’s form had taken on the hazy shine he had come to associate with a spirit crossing over.  “He can hear you, lass.  And it’s his time to go.  He just wanted to say good-bye.”  With that, the man grew brighter and then winked out.  “He’s gone.”

The girl, Ruby, had thrown her arms around him and cried.  Later, as they finished a bottle of rum between them, he learned that Peter had agreed to go hunting with some friends, even though Ruby didn’t like them and had asked he not go.  They had fought and he had left.  Later that day, he had separated from the group to answer the call of nature, and one of them, slightly drunk on whiskey, had mistaken his movement for a bird and fired into the trees, killing him.  They had met when Ruby had come here to study abroad and she had stayed on to marry him.

“Now, I guess I should go home.  He’s gone, and I have no reason to stay.”  She took another sip of rum.  “What about you?”

What about him?  He had no real reason to stay in England now.  Maybe he should travel.  “I fancy the idea of seeing some of America lass.  Would you mind awfully if I tagged along?”

And a friendship was born.  That night, he came home and spoke to Liam, telling him he was going abroad and he would be okay.  That he loved him and would always.  And Liam had smiled and ruffled his hair like he had when Killian was a boy.  Then he too had grown brighter and was gone. 

When they arrived back in America, they crashed with Ruby’s grandmother at her bed and breakfast outside of Boston.  They had only been there a few days when Ruby had cornered him at breakfast and asked if he had ever thought of using his talents.  He hadn’t liked the idea, but he had reluctantly tagged along to meet her friend Elsa, who lived in an old colonial home. 

Elsa started to tell him what was troubling her, but he asked her to wait with Ruby while he did a walk through instead.  By the end of it, he had come back and told Elsa that the presence was a British soldier who had bled out on the floor of the upstairs bedroom after a battle in the War of Independence.  He had spoken to the man for a long time, and in the end, the ghost has moved on.   Elsa had been grateful and had insisted he and Ruby take a check for $200.00.

He hadn’t wanted to, but Ruby had argued that what he did was a service.  She sat him down later and pointed out that there was clearly a need for what he did, both from the living and the dead.  She proposed that she would act as a manager of sorts, figuring out which cases to take and arranging travel and expenses and he would handle the actual spirits.  They had argued about fees and money, but in the end, she had made a good point.  People needed the help.  He could give them the help.  And so Jones Spirit Services was born.

They had been doing it fairly successfully for three years and hundreds of cases when they had gone to see Regina Mills.  She had felt a presence in the barns on her family estate.  By now, he and Ruby had a system.  She screened the clients and prepared the space for his walk through, removing anything that could influence him.  Then he did the walk through, which Ruby taped.

In this case, the spirit was a man called Daniel.  He had been a stable hand under Regina’s parents, and he had secretly loved her for years.  The year Regina had left for college, Daniel had been carrying for an ill horse when the animal had startled and kicked him, killing him instantly.  He had spoken to Daniel and later brought Regina out to the barn with him.  He told her who he had found, and her eyes had welled with tears.  She had suspected, but she didn’t know why he had stayed.  It turned out that Regina had, at the time, been rather in love with him too.

Killian had helped Daniel say good bye and the spirit had moved on.  Regina had paid them for their time and trouble, and that should have been that.  Then she had called Ruby again a month later and pitched the show.

Which was how Killian Jones found himself sitting in the conference room of the network’s New York headquarters, Ruby on his left.  The pretty young producer he had been introduced to, Mary Margaret, sat at one end of the table, with camera director David next to her.  Regina Mills was sitting at the other end, her assistant Sidney with her.  They were all waiting on the other part of the on screen team, who was currently fifteen minutes late.

Just then, the door opened and a blonde woman stepped in, clearly exasperated.  “Sorry, my flight was delayed, then our luggage got pulled for additional screening, and I had a hell of a time finding the car.”  She looked up, and he was struck by eyes the color of green sea glass and a fieriness that he hadn’t known in ages.

He was so very, very screwed.

 


	2. The Best Laid Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the positive reviews. I was out of town and then ill, so apologies for the delay. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

You have got to be shitting me, Emma thought as her eyes came up on the people in the room.  She knew who Regina was, and she’d skyped with Sidney about arranging her travel.  She was pretty darn sure that the tall blonde man at the end of the table was too all American quarterback to possibly be a ghost whisperer, so that left the man facing the door.

He was clearly on the tall side, even seated, with messy hair so dark it was nearly black, though there were ginger underpinnings in the stubble of the beard he sports.  He was wearing a look right out of the bad boy play book, black leather jacket and a dark maroon button up with so much chest exposed she wondered why he bothered.  The grey waistcoat just completed the look.  But what arrested her in her tracks were his eyes.  Eyes weren’t supposed to be that blue outside of Hollywood movies and tinted contacts, and Christ on a Cracker, she didn’t need that right now.

He starred at her like she was a ghost, and it was the woman next to him who stood, offering her hand.  “You must be Emma.  I’m Ruby Lucas, Killian’s assistant.”

She knew that, she thought.  It had been in the dossier that Regina had given her.  That he had an assistant, someone who helped him do…whatever the hell two bit cons like him did.  She shook hands with the Lucas girl stiffly and then sat.

“Now that Emma’s made it, let’s begin.”  Regina was nothing is not in charge.  “Emma, Killian, you’ve met Sidney via Skype.  At the other end of the table is Mary Margaret Blanchard.  She’s the producer who’ll travel with you.  David Nolan is next to her, he’s our director of camera operations.  He’ll head a three man crew with Sean Thomas and Victor Whale.  They’ll travel with you.”

“I’m so excited to be working with you!”  Mary Margaret gushed.  She resembled nothing so much as some kind of post-modern Snow White, which close-cropped black hair in a pixie cut and a very Mod Cloth dress and sweater.  Emma half expected to see birds flying around her.  David nodded from his seat next to her, giving them a bright smile.

“So, how does this work?” Emma realized she sounded gruff, and she felt a bit bad when Mary Margaret’s smile faltered.  “I get the wide concept, but I’d like to know the logistics.”

Regina nodded and turned to Sidney, who started an honest to God power point.  “The format of the show is pretty simple.  We will have a haunted property.  Emma, you will be given a dossier on the background of the property.  You’ll meet with the owners to see what information they can give you.  Then you’ll work it like a cold case.  Look at historical records, talk to local law enforcement.  Find out if there is some event associated with the house that could corroborate a haunting- suicide, murder, whatever.  Try to find pictures of past owners or occupants.”

He clicked to the next slide and continued.  “Killian will do his process.  Ruby will clear the house of personal information, and then he’ll do his walk through, see what the spirits tell him.  Maybe work with a sketch artist to do some sketches of the spirits you see.”  Emma snorted quietly, and noticed her co-star’s eyes flick to her.

Sidney moved on unperturbed, clicking to another slide.  “We finish with what we call the Reveal!  Emma and Killian, you won’t interact throughout the filming until this point.  No discussing the case, no sharing findings.  We’ll sit you down with the property owners, have Killian describe what he found, and then Emma, you will either confirm or refute his findings.”

Killian gave her a warm smile.  “See, love, easy as falling off a log.”  And the accent.  Of course he had an accent.  Perfect.

“Not your love.”  Emma’s voice was a trap snapped shut.  She focused her attention on Regina.  “Here’s the thing- it’s going to be an uninteresting show when all I do is refute him.  Like, really uninteresting.  And I’m not going to twist or bend the facts for you to make this interesting.”

“Why would you always refute him?”  Mary Margaret sounded confused.

Emma sighed, weary already.  “Because there is no such thing as ghosts.  Or poltergeists.  Or demonic possession.”  She looked at the pair across from her.  “Or the tooth fairy.  No offense, but I just don’t buy it.”

Ruby looked a little grim, and she was pretty sure Mary Margaret’s jaw had dropped, but Killian laughed, a rich, almost gravely sound.  “A skeptic, Miss Swan?  I do love a challenge.”

It was Emma’s turn to snort.  “Yeah, okay.”

Regina clapped her hands, bringing attention back to the front.  “Right.  We think Emma’s skepticism will actually benefit the show.  If it looked like our hardnosed investigator was ready to jump in with Ouija boards and séances, it wouldn’t be nearly as convincing if your finding do match up.”

“Actually, Ouija boards are horrible things.”  Killian was looking right at Emma, and she shifted uncomfortably.  “They invite unhappy spirits.”

“Whatever.”  She looked back at Regina.  “What about the crew?”

“We’ve all signed binding agreements not to share information we observed between you.”  Mary Margaret was back, smiling brightly again. 

“We’ll have Sean assigned to Killian and Ruby.  Victorwill be with you, Emma.  I’ll float, depending on what we need for the scene that we’re shooting.”  David’s voice was warm, and Emma caught Mary Margaret smiling at him.  It made her wonder if there was something there.

Sidney coughed.  “So, that just leaves who will pick the property you’ll investigate.

“I will.”  Ruby and Emma spoke in sync, then looked at each other.

“Like hell you will.”  Emma spoke firmly, and shot her co-stars what she hoped was a look that would brook no argument.

*****

He really was so very, very screwed.  He wasn’t sure what he had expected of this Emma Swan.  Regina had given them a dossier when they had initially met with her, but the stern face of the young woman in the formal police portrait, taken just after her academy graduation, was leagues away from the vision across the table.

Her golden hair, pulled back and almost invisible in the shot, was down around her face in curls.  He could make out a few sun kissed freckles dappling her nose, and her lips looked soft and pink despite the scowl she kept giving him.  A fire burned deep in her green eyes, and she gave no quarter as the meeting progressed.  He found he quite liked pushing her buttons.

Glass coughed, trying to draw attention back up to the front, to regain control in front of his boss.  “So, that just leaves who will pick the property you’ll investigate.

“I will.”  Ruby and Emma spoke in sync, then looked at each other.

Emma spoke first, her tone acid.  “Like hell you will.”

Ruby bristled next to him, and he watched as something in Emma’s aspect shifted.  People tended to dismiss his Ruby, with her outrageous outfits and red-streaked hair, but the lass had become like family to him, and he knew she carried iron in her core.

She snapped back.  “I’ve always chosen our jobs, its how we work.”

“And before, you were concerned about building a reputation.  Now, the reputation you need for this to work is that Jones here is operating off the map.”  Emma glanced between them and Regina.  “No prior intel, or the premise fails.  If people think that Miss Lucas as his assistant knows, they’ll assume they talk.  That assumption makes the whole process null.”

“She does have a point, Miss Lucas.”  Regina cocked her head, looking between them.  “We try it Miss Swan’s way, this time.  She’ll sit down with Sidney this afternoon and pick a first project.  We’ll fly you all out in a few days, once wardrobe reviews your clothes and gets additions.  In the meantime, we have the three of you in suites at the Michelangelo Hotel here in town.  Sidney has schedules, and company cards for you for meals and what not.  We’re excited you are all here.”

And with that, Regina Mills was gone.  Killian had forgotten what a force of nature the woman was. Sidney handed the three of them packets, then followed her out, leaving them with Mary Margaret and David.  The bubbly producer smiled.  “So, lunch?”

Thirty minutes later, Killian was seated at a round table at some upscale bistro, chatting amicably with David Nolan about, of all things, hockey.  He’d come to love the sport since coming to the states, and he frequently caught games in Boston when he and Ruby weren’t on the road.  Nolan tried to convince him the Rangers were vastly superior to the Bruins.

Ruby was on his other side, chatting away with Mary Margaret about the city’s art scene, and every once in a while, he’d catch her smiling widely.  It did him good to see her happy.  He owed much of his own happiness to her bringing him along to the States.  On the other side of the table, Emma Swan sat mostly quiet, pushing the remains of her salad around with her fork.  He had caught the look in her eyes early, and had recognized it, he was fairly sure.  God knows he had seen it enough in the mirror.

After the check was settled, he and Ruby followed the others to the door.  Emma was going back to see Sidney with Mary Margaret and David, while he and Ruby were free until their wardrobe meeting tomorrow.  He threw a charming grin at his co-star.  “Dinner, later Swan?  We could get to know each other.”

“I have work to do.”  The answer was short, no nonsense.  Everything he was coming to expect from their most limited of acquaintances. 

“Suit yourself, then.”  He watched as the three of them hailed a cab, then turned and looked at his friend.  “Well, my Ruby Tuesday, I hear there is a good museum or two about.  Want to play tourist?”

“Hell yes.”  Ruby leaned out and threw up her hand, and two cabs almost clipped each other, slamming to a halt for her.  Climbing in the back, she asked the driver to take them to the Met, then leaned back.  “So, she’s a handful.”

“Hmm?  You mean the oh, so charming Miss Swan?”  A cheshire grin lit his features.

Ruby nodded.  “I don’t like that I can’t pick the project.  It’s my job to protect you.”  Her mouth pushed into a grim line.  “She’s impeding my job.”

Killian pulled the lass in for a hug.  “I know.  But never fear, I’ll be all right.  What’s the worst that could happen?”

Ruby slugged him in the arm.  “Don’t jinx us, you ass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”  He chuckled wryly.  Bad things could happen, but somehow, he suspected that Swan wouldn’t steer him awry.  “Now, where shall we go for dinner?”

******

Emma spent three hours with Mary Margaret and Sidney, looking at potential first investigations.  Adventure Channel had put a call for applicants out on their website, and had been flooded.  Sidney’s intern, Ashley, had done an initial cull, but there was still almost 45 to pick through.

She had discounted anything in New England as being too close to where Killian was already working.  The possibility that one of them may have already been screened by Ruby was too high.  Sidney and Mary Margaret reminded her that the show was supposed to be entertaining, and something with architectural interest, or atmosphere would be good. 

She had narrowed it down to three, then did quick searches on her computer to see what initial information and records might be available.  Two washed out quickly, but the last seemed promising.

She picked up the file and handed it to Sidney.  “This one.”

“You’re sure?”  The man had been starring at her intently for most of this time, and she was starting to feel creeped out. 

“I’m sure.”  Sidney handed the file to Mary Margaret.  She looked over it.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to see this part of the country.”  Her effervescent attitude would normally annoy Emma, but something about her seemed familiar.  “Sidney, if you book the plane tickets and accommodations, I’ll call and speak to the owner.  Isn’t this exciting, Emma?”

“Right.”  She forced herself to smile and reminded herself that it was a paycheck and stability.  “Louisiana, here we come.”

 


	3. Le Belle Maison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your feedback thus far. I am having a lot of fun with this one.

The entire crew had flown into Baton Rouge on the same red eye flight, though Sidney had made a point of booking Emma and Killian at opposite ends of the cabin.  Emma ended up in the front, sitting with Mary Margaret and Sidney’s intern, Ashley, who was along for experience, while Killian and Ruby sat in the back with David and the crew guys.  Emma cringed when she could still occasionally hear laughter, all the way up at her seat.  The women with her had zonked out right after take-off, but Emma remained awake, flipping idly through her dossier.

They were headed to Geismer, Louisiana, and then out into the country.  For their first (and probably last case, after Jones proved to be a fraud), she had chosen La Belle Maison, a Greek revival style sugarcane plantation built in the early 1800s.  The current owner, a Dr. Archie Hopper, had a counseling practice in town.  A born history buff, he had been restoring the place for years with plans to eventually turn it into a living history museum.  He lived in a converted carriage house out back.

Her day before had started with a fitting with wardrobe, where the stylist, Aurora, had gushed over her tough but feminine style and had then handed her another five leather jackets, tough pairs of riding boots, and assorted tops and jeans.  Then she had spent the afternoon at a desk that Sidney arranged for her, making calls.  Dr. Hopper (please, call me Archie) had been excited to speak to her, and had given her the names of some people to contact.

The sheriff in Geismer, a man called Spencer, agreed to meet with her for an interview, as had Marco and August, two of the restoration specialists working on the house.  She had also reached out to a professor of Louisiana history and folklore at Louisiana State University.  Dr. Ingrid Michaelson had been a little dubious, but when Emma said she just wanted the facts about the property, she too had agreed to the interview.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.  We are about to begin our descent into beautiful Baton Rouge…” 

At the sound of the intercom, Emma closed the dossier, sticking it into the brown leather messenger bag that Aurora had provided.  Well, here goes nothing, she thought.

*****

Killian followed Ruby out of the baggage claim and toward Mary Margaret and Sean.  They would ride in one rental SUV together, while Emma, Ashley, and Victor took the second SUV.  David would follow in a rented van with the equipment.  The plan was to get to the hotel and establish a base of operations, then go their separate ways.  Killian knew that Emma would go to the property first, to do fact finding and initial interviews, then clear out before tonight, when he and Ruby would do their thing.  Or, Ruby in the late afternoon, then him in the evening.  For some reason, ghosts were sometimes more willing to be seen in the night.

He had stayed up late the night before, or rather, into this morning, but that wasn’t unusual.  Insomnia had plagued him even as a child, and now, years and losses later, it wasn’t much better.  Plus, New York being New York, there had been a large number of spirits everywhere he and Ruby had gone.  At the Met, at the MOMA, down near Broadway.  Ruby had wanted to go see Ellis Island, then looked at the slightly green color he turned, and wisely decided to not.  Usually he could…not block out the contact, per se, but filter it.  New York, however, had been inhabited, and perhaps over inhabited for so long, it was almost oppressive.

He watched Swan grab her green suitcase off the carousel and walk toward them, iPod on and earbuds firmly in both ears.  He tried not to be insulted at the lengths that she was going to in order to keep them from speaking, and had been since she had turned down his dinner invitation.  It was the whole point, after all.  She already knew things about the property and what was going on. 

But there was not speaking about the case, and then there was not speaking to him at all.  He had developed what Liam used to call an over-abundance of charm to compensate for his…gift?  Curse?  He just wasn’t used to someone, particularly a female someone, being this immune to him.  He had mentioned it in passing to Ruby the night before in their cab, coming back from Chinatown where they had eaten.

“Maybe she’s a lesbian?”  Ruby was all wide, guileless eyes, and he nearly snapped his own neck turning to look at her.  Then she had cackled.

“Unkind, Miss Lucas.”  He huffed a little.  “Most unkind.”

“Calm down, Captain.”  It was her favorite nickname for him, due to his time in the Navy.  “She’s just not that in to you.  You can’t win them all.”

Ruby in the present shoving him brought his attention back around as Sean took their suitcases and stowed them into the cargo van.  Once they got to the hotel, he thought, he’d be able to sleep some.  Maybe that would take the edge off.

******

Emma had been pleased to find that she wasn’t going to be subjected to lots of hair and make-up on this adventure.  “We want you three to seem like real, natural people, Miss Swan.”  Regina had smiled at her when she said it, and Emma thought that perhaps if that was the goal, they should have gone with a phony psychic who didn’t look like a Calvin Klein underwear model.

Once they had checked in to the hotel, a Best Western a town over from their investigations site, she had changed out of her plane clothes.  Brown riding boots over dark wash jeans, a grey tank top, and her red leather jacket took their place.  She took her time to do minimal, natural looking make-up, and then used her flat iron to touch up her curls. 

Done, she grabbed her messenger bag and headed downstairs.  Victor and Mary Margaret were waiting for her with the keys to one of the two SUV.  “Here you go, boss.”

Emma found herself raising an eyebrow at him.  “I’m driving?”

The camera man laughed.  “So, here’s how this is going to go.  I’ll ride in the passenger seat and I’ll film you.  Mary Margaret rides in the back.  While we’re driving out to the plantation, you should talk to me.  Tell me about where we’re going, who we’re meeting.  Background on the location.  Anything that the viewers would need to know to follow along.”

It sounded like a horrible idea, but what the hell, it’s what she signed up for.  “Let’s get the show on the road then.”  Mary Margaret chuckled, and Victor hoisted his camera bag and followed, cackling at her joke.

It was strange to have someone point a camera at her while driving, but Emma took it in stride.  She remembered taking aspiring criminal justice majors on ride-alongs and decided to keep it similar.  “Today, we’re going to meet Dr. Archie Hopper at La Belle Maison, a historic plantation in Louisiana, near Baton Rouge.”  Victor gave her the thumbs up.  “Dr. Hopper contacted us because he and the workmen he has restoring the property have reported weird experiences.  I’ll be meeting with him so he can tell me more.”

By the time they were pulling up the long, oak lined drive, she had talked about what she knew so far.  That the property had been built in the early 1800s; it had been a sugar cane plantation.  She mentioned a nearby Civil War skirmish, and how it had fallen into disrepair in the early 20th century.  It was almost a surprise when she pulled to a stop and got out, how easy it had been to forget the camera.

“Great job, Emma!” Victor was grinning widely.  The plantation house was large, two stories, with a low slung roof, and a loggia of columns and an upper balcony running around it.  Set among old growth oaks draped in Spanish moss, the butter yellow walls seemed to glow in the morning sun.

The front door opened, and a tall, willowy man with pale ginger hair and glasses stepped out onto the porch, followed by a Dalmatian.  Mary Margaret turned at the sound.

“Dr. Hopper?  I’m Mary Margaret Blanchard, with the Adventure Network.”  She walked up the stairs and shook his hand.  “Thank you for having us.”

“Thank you for coming, Miss Blanchard. Please, call me Archie.”  He held out a hand to Victor, who shook it and introduced himself.  “So, how do we proceed?”

Emma watched her producer speaking to the man.  “Emma is our investigator.  We’ll film the two of you meeting.  She’ll ask you questions about what your experiencing, and what you know about the house, maybe do a walk through.  Once she feels like she has everything she can get from you, she’ll interview your contractors, and then go chase down leads.”

The man nodded.  “Of course.”  He held his hand out to her.  “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan.”

“Emma.”  She shook his hand, then put hers out for the dog to sniff.  “He’s beautiful.”

“Thank you!”  Hopper seemed genuinely pleased.  “Pongo has been my best friend for years now.”

Mary Margaret also petted the dog, then continued.  “Once Emma and Victor leave, I’ll call in Ruby, Killian’s assistant, and she will come and prepare the house with Sean, our other camera man.  You will walk through with her, and she’ll remove or cover anything that could throw Killian off or give him extra information.  When it’s ready, she’ll run back and get Killian and bring him here tonight for the walk through.”

Archie nodded again, putting Emma in mind of one of those water drinking stork toys.  “Shall we start?”

Mary Margaret hurried back to the SUV, grabbing her iPad to take notes as they worked.  Victor queued up the camera, and when Emma nodded, he pressed record.  “I’m here with Dr. Archie Hopped at La Belle Maison.  Dr. Hopper has asked us here to investigate unusual occurrences on the property.  Archie, what can you tell me about how you came to own the house.”

“Well, Emma, that’s an interesting story.”  And they were off.  Archie walked her into the house, describing how he stumbled over the house at a real estate auction five years before, left abandoned and vacant for decades, crumbling in, and on a whim, made a bid of $500.00.  He had walked away with the deed and no clue what to do with it.  He had a large inheritance from a great uncle, a bachelor like himself, and he decided to restore the place to something worth seeing.

Today, the house was lovely.  New plasterwork covered the walls and was painted in colors he had carefully researched to insure accuracy to the house’s era.  His restoration specialist had carved new wainscoting and sconce work to match the originals, filling in or replacing it as needed.  Even the furniture now in place would be correct for an antebellum home.

“So, Archie.  You asked us here because strange things have been happening.  What can you tell me?”  Emma kept her face neutral, the way she had learned to as a cop.  A witness who thought you didn’t believe them wasn’t going to tell you anything.

The men took off his glasses, polishing them on his sweater vest before putting them back on.  “I’m a man of scientific training, Emma, so please understand, I don’t usually jump to fantastical conclusions.  If it weren’t for Marco and August…”

“Your restoration specialists?” Emma supplied.

“Yes.”  Archie paused.  “Well, I would have thought I was going mad.  Not long after we got the new plaster up, we came in one day, and there was the faintest impression of a handprint.  Like a teenager, or a woman with delicate hands.  No one was on the property.  Not long after, I was walking through the upstairs on an extremely hot summer’s day.  And suddenly, the air around me was ice cold.  We don’t have air conditioning in the main house.”

Emma had been taking notes.  Now she paused and looked at Archie, really looked.  Graham had always said she had a sixth sense about people lying to her.  But this man, he looked genuinely nervous, unsettled.  “What else?”

“Marco and August have mentioned tools gone missing that then turn up across the house in rooms they haven’t touched.”  He closed his eyes, seeming to think.  “Lights moving in the house at night, when no one is here.  The sound of crying, sometimes, on stormy evenings.  Then, about a month ago, I saw a woman at the top of the stairs.  She looked silvery…like an old movie, but see through.  She looked straight at me, then turned, and disappeared.”

Emma could see Mary Margaret, slightly behind her and out of shot, her mouth open a bit in shock.  Emma kept her tone professional.  “And can you think of anything that could explain it?”

Dr. Hopper shook his head.  “Believe me, Miss Swan…Emma, I’ve thought about it for days.  I’ve had electricians out, just to check.  I’ve stayed up to make sure it’s not teenagers coming in and playing a prank.”  He sighed.  “I was at my wit’s end until August saw the announcement about your services and said I should contact you.  I’m just…well, just so grateful, that you and Mr. Jones have come.”

“Thank you, Dr. Hopper.”  She tilted her head at Archie, and Victor took her cue to kill the camera.

“I got it.  You did well, Emma!  You too, Dr. Hopper.”  Victor checked a reading level.  “I’m going to grab a fresh battery pack, MM.  I’ll be right back.”

Mary Margaret nodded.  “Thank you, Archie.”  She turned to Emma.  “Marco and August are around back in the old family parlor.  We can interview them when Victor’s done.”

“Sure.”  Emma looked at her notes.  It sounded like every classic, go bump in the night ghost story she knew.  She fought the urge to sigh.  Surely, Killian Jones would make much of it, some romantic tale of woe and lost love and tragic death.  She just wished she knew why a man as intelligent as Dr. Hopper seemed to be was so ready to believe it all.  Oh, well, the sooner they got through with all this hocus pocus, the better.  “Let’s keep going.”

As she turned to go down the hall, something brushed her cheek, and she shivered.  Just a cross breeze, surely.


	4. Ghost Walk with Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the feedback. I am glad people are enjoying the story.

Killian had managed about three hours of sleep at the hotel before Ruby tapped on his door to let him know she was headed out with Sean to do the prep work on the property.  She’d come back for him just before dark.  Killian had nodded tiredly, and fallen back into bed, waking up two hours later starving.  He sent a text to Ruby, then walked down, asking the desk clerk to recommend a restaurant he could walk to.

The place he ended up at was a café up the road, overlooking the bayou.  The waitress smiled at him kindly as he read through the menu, then took his order for a blackened chicken salad and a cola, leaving him to look out the bay windows onto the water out back.  It was quiet, and no one was making their presence known aside from two alligators sunning themselves on the rocky spillway.  Just what he needed to get himself in the right headspace for that evening.

He had finished the salad and let the waitress talk him into bread pudding with rum sauce, then paid his bill and walked back to the hotel.  He had to admit, he’d let Ruby influence his wardrobe (and so many other areas of his life, really).  But there was an expected look for someone who did what he did, and so he dressed with car.  Tight black jeans and motorcycle boots for the lower half of himself; a dark grey button up with a subtle lighter print of small flowers, dark grey waist coat, and his leather jacket on top.  Around his neck was a necklace Liam had given him ages ago, a gag gift based on his boyhood love of pirates.  It was, Ruby said, just rock and roll enough to make his bad boy vibe complete.

Returning to his room, Killian closed his eyes briefly in the hall.  The young woman at the end of it didn’t know she was actually dead yet.  A…overdose, it felt like.  Nothing he could do to help her now, he needed to focus on the walk through tonight.  With any luck, tomorrow he could try to help, get her to move on.  She wasn’t disruptive, but he could feel her sadness and confusion.

Sitting in his room, he closed his eyes again, dropping his head into his hand.  He loved Ruby like a sister, the closest thing to family he’d had since Liam had died.  But there were days when even with her snarky, constant, cheery presence, he felt lonely.  He had thought he’d met someone, a few months after the move.  Milah Flori was another spiritualist (gods, he hated that term), called in by a family at the same time he was to investigate a haunting.

She had been vibrant and fun and full of life, and for the first time, he felt like someone understood him.  More than Liam had, more than Ruby did.  She seemed to know what it was like, seeing the dead, hearing them.  He had fallen for her hard and fast and had been considering marriage, much to Ruby’s displeasure (‘I don’t like her, Killian.  I can’t say why.  Call it intuition). 

And then he had walked in on her putting in an earbud so tiny, he had never seen it.  It was miniscule, really, but it let her partner, a man called Smee, feed her information about the property from a van a block away.  She had laughed at him when he had called her out on it.    
“Of course I am faking it, darling.”  She looked at him with a look of condescension.  “We’re all faking it.  Now, tell me, truly, how do you do it?  You are utterly convincing.”

He had gone to the local police and reported the fraud, and she and Smee were gone before they could be rousted.  All he was left with was a thoroughly broken heart, a very ill-advised tattoo, and the knowledge that in this one thing, he would likely always be very, very alone.

For some reason, what popped into his head now was an image of his erstwhile co-star.  Skeptical to the core, he could only imagine what she would have done to Milah, if she had still been a cop.  While she may not trust him as far as she could throw him, he found himself trusting her implicitly to be what they needed to make this work.  That she was easy on the eyes didn’t hurt.  Then he scoffed at himself.  Dream on, Jones.

The knock at the door almost startled him, and he looked up, finding the sky outside his window awash with color as the sun sank down on the horizon.  “Come on Killian, we need to go.”  Ruby’s voice cut through the door.

“Coming, lass.”  He pushed himself up, shook the last of his melancholy away, and prepared to meet the dead.

******

Emma wasn’t sure what she was expecting a team or restorationists to be like, but Marco and August Booth are something of a surprise.  Marco is older, kindly and Italian with an accent and a warm smile.  “My name was Batelli, but the men at Ellis Island couldn’t spell that.  So I became Booth.  America!”  He proceeds to charm Mary Margaret, showing her his tools and the intricate carving work he is doing on replacement trim for the fireplace.  In the meantime, Emma focuses on the son.

The first thing August tells her is that Marco is his father in every sense but one.  “He and his wife, Lena, never had kids.  She died of cancer pretty young.  “And then he met me.  My mom was gone, and my dad was…well, Fagan-esque, I suppose.  He was only too glad to be shed of me.  Left me in a house he was renting from Marco.”  August shrugged, looking across the room.  “Papa took me in and never looked back.”

Emma is touched, and heart sore, all at once.  This man had found the thing she never had.  Not with the Swans, who dropped her like a hot rock after their miracle pregnancy.  Not any of the other placements.  Not with…she won’t even think his name.  Graham was the closest thing she’d had, and well…

“We should get this done, so you guys can finish before Mr. Jones comes.”  Emma nodded at Victor, letting him set up the shot most effectively, while Mary Margaret briefs them on what to expect.  Emma found herself distracted by the painting over the fireplace in what was clearly the library.  In the picture, a young woman with rich, chestnut brown curls sat in a formal, golden silk dress on a couch, posed before a wall of books.  Emma had actually enjoyed her art history elective in college, and she remembered that usually in this style of portrait, the lady would have a fan.  Here, she held an open book in her hand.

Just then, Victor asked if she was ready, and she focused back on the onscreen interview.  Much like with Archie, she let August and Marco create the narrative, talking about their work in general and on the house, asking questions when things started to get off track.  As they had before with Archie, they told a story of sudden temperature fluxuations, strange noises, tools gone missing from this room and found in an upstairs bedroom, or even in one of the outbuildings.  August told about coming back one night for his phone and seeing what looked like lamps left burning in the parlor.  No one was there.

“You’re professionals.  Can you think of any cause for the things you’re seeing, outside of a haunting?”  Emma kept her tone carefully neutral, as before, but she sees a little smirk in August’s eyes.

Marco was the one who answered.  “For one thing, or another, Miss Swan, perhaps.  But there is an idea in art, synergy.  Something that is greater than the sum of its parts.”  He smiles at her, reminding her of nothing so much as a kindly grandfather.  “Here the individual incidents make up something else, yes?”

Emma smiled, and thanked them.  She was about to signal victor to cut tape when she noticed the painting.  “Marco, August, do you know anything about that painting above the fireplace?”

The men smiled, and this time, August answered.  “That’s the namesake of the place, Miss Swan.  If you want to get to the heart of the story, you should start with old Isabella French.”

Almost as if on cue, the crystals in the grand entryway chandelier tinkled as if brushed by a breeze. Victor captured Emma’s look of surprise perfectly.

******

It had taken Ruby a while to clear the house.  It was by no means the first mansion they had worked in, but Archie’s obsession with turning into a museum meant that there were tons of portraits and pictures which could be actual former residents…or something he picked up at an antique store.  They had one client once who had a huge collection of Victorian momento mori pictures (but was shocked, shocked that her home had developed a ghost issue).

Still, Sean had filmed her a bit, then helped her, taking down what they could, and putting drop clothes over what they couldn’t.  The whole time, Ruby hummed to herself, and Sean almost fell off a step stool when it finally hit him.  “Is that the theme from Ghostbusters?”

“Naturally.”  She gave him a sassy smile and tugged the cover cloth tighter over the portrait in the library.  “I ain’t afraid of no ghosts.”

Of course, that wasn’t strictly true.  For the most part, Ruby was unafraid, but there had been some cases they had done that had spooked even her, and she had been personally haunted by a dead fiancé for nigh on 8 months.

She and Sean had packed down, then headed back to the hotel.  When she got to Killian’s room, he answered the door looking a little more disquieted than he had last night.  She searched his face for a moment.  “You good to go, Cap?”

“Right as rain, Ruby Tuesday.”  He gave her that smile of his that didn’t quite reach his eyes and pulled the door shut behind him.

“Freaking Rolling Stones.”  She walked a little down the hall with him, then stopped.  “Suicide or…”

“Overdose, I think.”  She found herself sighing and putting her hand on his sleeve, just above his brace.

“You can’t help them all, K.”  She could feel the tremor run through him.  “But once we’re done tonight, we can try.”

Before long, they were in the car, headed down the road.  As they drove, Killian went quiet, which was unusual.  He was in the front passenger seat, and she driving, Sean filming them both from the back, and from a small, GoPro dash cam.

As Ruby turned into the edge of the tree lined drive, his voice frightened her.  It was strangled and ragged, and his breathing was suddenly coming much too fast.  “Ruby, stop the car.”

“What?”  Her focus was split between trying to glance at him and not drive off the gravel.

“Stop…the…fucking…car, lass.” 

Ruby slammed her foot on the brakes, kicking up gravel, and stopped.  Before she could move or even breathe, Killian was out the door and leaned over, retching into a ditch. 

She felt her mouth fall open, and saw Sean looking out the window in shock. “Does that happen often?”

Ruby shook her head, and turned, digging through her hobo bag for a bottle of water and some tissue.  “No, it doesn’t.”

She climbed out, circling to wear Killian had lost his late lunch and handed him the water.  He swished out his mouth quickly, then spit before drinking down more.  Ruby handed him the tissues.  “You don’t have to do this, Cap.  We can go.”

“No, lass.  We’re right where we need to be.  Just give me a minute, yeah?”  Killian tried to look reassuring, but Ruby felt her stomach drop as she walked around and climbed back into the car. 

“What does it mean?” Sean asked, looking at her.

Ruby was starring ahead up the drive, the white columns just visible through the trees.

“Nothing good.”


	5. Out of the Frying Pan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Truly, thank you all for the wonderful feedback. It makes the muses happy. :D

Emma actually passed Killian and Ruby in the lobby of the hotel when she returned, though the supposed seer didn’t seem to notice her.  She was tired, and sweaty, and she wanted nothing more than a shower and food and a Jack and coke, hold the coke.  By the time Victor had let her and Mary Margaret out of the car, she had convinced herself that the glancing touch she had felt, the tinkling of the chandelier had been a breeze from some open window or something.  Everything had some kind of explanation.

Still, she couldn’t get the painting of the woman, this Isabella French, out of her mind.  Something about her felt familiar.  Sighing, she pushed the button for her floor and headed up, swiping into her room.  As with most hotels she had stayed in, there was a take-out menu for a local pizza joint in the “Make Yourself at Home” binder.  She glanced through it, then called an order in for a large meat monster. 

By the time it arrived, Emma had taken a nice, long shower, wrapping her hair up in a towel and pulling on yoga pants with her tank top.  Paying the nice young man who brought it to her, she settled in on the couch in her suite, pulling out her computer and searching for web resources on Louisiana history.

It took her two hours and four slices, but she finally hit on a page from a defunct group called the Ladies of the Camellia, some kind of daughters of the Louisiana gentry thing.  Someone had spent a lot of time gathering information about the genealogy of the major plantation families, even those who had died out. 

Emma clicked on the link that said French.  The information seemed confined mostly to parish records and newspaper reports.  A Maurice French had married noted New Orleans debutante Colette Devereaux, and had built for her a sprawling estate called Roseland.  They had a daughter, Isabella, before Colette died in an outbreak of Yellow Fever in New Orleans in 1833 while visiting her ailing mother.  There was a portrait of Maurice and Colette, and a baby in a Christening gown. 

Maurice and Isabella appear to have stayed on at Roseland, and the society pages began to fill with glowing reports of the beauty and charm of Miss French when she had her coming out at the age of seventeen in 1847.  There was a daguerreotype of the girl in her pretty white gown, smiling.  There was no further mention of Isabella or her father until 1850, when her engagement to Gaston Thibodeaux was announced.  The news noted that Mr. Thibodeaux was the owner of a neighboring property and part of a fine, upstanding Baton Rouge family.  What struck Emma, however, was how deeply unhappy Isabella looked in the next picture, standing next to her fiancé.  Gone was the bright sparkle in her eyes.

The last story was brief, and yet shocking.  On the night of her engagement ball at Roseland, Isabella French was abducted by a man believed to be an itinerate tinker, who, according to the reports, violated her most foully and killed her, before being caught by Thibodeaux and hung summarily from a tree.  A final note in the papers a week later stated that Maurice French, having lost now his love and his daughter, was found dead by his own hand.  Thibodeaux purchased Roseland and renamed it La Belle Maison.

“Shit.”  Emma hadn’t realized she had spoken out loud at that point until the sound of her own voice scared her.  Grease had congealed on top of her remaining pizza and she was staring at an empty glass that had been full of soda. 

It wasn’t that she didn’t know bad things happened.  She had been abandoned on the side of the road as a baby, for Christsake.  Her first love had thrown her to the cops to save himself.  Graham was… she realized she felt like crying.  Crying for the young girl in the daguerreotype, who had lost her mother, but still smiled so brightly.  For the woman in the portrait.  The one who looked so sad beside her fiancé.  Who had apparently died so horribly.  It was ridiculous, Isabella French had been buried and gone for over a hundred years.

Emma shook herself and closed the browser, pulling out her moleskin notepad instead and jotting down notes.  Maybe her meeting at the University tomorrow morning could tell her more.

She glanced outside and saw that it was now full dark, and the heavy humidity in the air seemed to be brewing up into a storm.  She hoped Killian and the others were okay out at the plantation.  Then she wondered suddenly when she had started to care.

God, I need a drink, she thought, as the first clap of thunder rattled the windows, and she felt another flicker of concern for the others.  Hopefully, the storm would pass.

*****

He could still faintly taste the vomit in his mouth, rum and blackening spice and raisins.  It was a cloying combination and he just wanted it gone.  The water helped some, but it had been a while since somewhere had made him so very ill.  He tried to recall…the old reform school, maybe.  Eight months ago…no, eleven.  So many places, so many spirits, happy or scared or angry.

It made sense, he supposed as the air moved his hair, the smell of a storm and the far off scent of the sea washing over him.  This had been a plantation.  He wasn’t American, but he was bloody well educated, and he knew that even with the kindest of masters, slavery was a horror and a blight.  The whispering voices, tracing over the back of his mind, were unsettling.  Pain…loss…hurt…fear…terror.  So much grief and death.  Looking out over the property, he could see shadowy figures walking in the trees behind the house. 

“How does anyone bloody live here?” he mumbled, then climbed back into the car.  When they pulled up in front of the mansion at the end of the drive, he climbed out to find David waiting.  “Jones.”

“Dave.”  The blonde man shot him a bit of a look at that.  “How do we do this?”

“You and Ruby will do whatever it is you usually do.”  Ruby smiled, holding up her own GoPro camera and her ‘ready’ bag with more water, ginger ale, pepto, his emergency rum flask, and a first aid kit.  “Sean and I will be a discrete distance.  We want to interfere little if at all with what you’re doing.  Just focus on your process, we’ll worry about getting the shot.”

“You okay?’ Ruby’s voice was soft and clearly meant for him, but David glanced at him anyway. 

“I’ll be fine, lass.” He nodded at David who picked up his rig and headed into the house to position himself.  Ruby pressed record on her own camera, and gave him a thumbs up.  “Right then, here we go.  I’m Killian Jones, and this is a walk-through of La Belle Maison, 15 August, 2015.”

It was curious how the dead chose to manifest themselves, he thought as they walked into the house and entered the front parlor.  He had assumed that the ghosts outside on the property, likely the slaves once imprisoned here, weren’t all of the story.  But he hadn’t expected…

“There’s a man in the parlor, sitting on the settee by the fireplace.”  His voice is soft, pitched for Ruby, and he supposes David and Sean.  “Older, maybe early fifties.  His clothes look…maybe mid-19th century.”

Killian walked forward into the room, coming closer.  The man glanced up at him briefly, then turned his attention back to the thing in his hand.  A frame, holding a small portrait on the left side and an old-fashioned photo on the right.  “My fault.”  His fingers traced the faces of the two women who looked nearly like sisters.  “Both so young and beautiful, and my fault they’re dead.  I’m sorry, my girls.  So sorry.”

“Who are they, mate?”  Killian squatted down until he was eye-level with the ghost.  “Your family?  What happened to them?”

The man just raised his eyes, giving him a baleful look.  “My fault.”  And then he disappeared. 

Killian sighed, and looked at Ruby.  “He’s gone.”  He could feel his stomach flip again as he got an impression of the room.  “I think he may have died here.  Not…it doesn’t feel like a murder.  Suicide, maybe.  He carries such despair.”

“Did he cross over when you spoke to him?”  Ruby’s voice was even and gentle with long practice. 

Killian shook his head.  “Something’s…trapping him, holding him to the property.”  He stood up.  “Let’s keep going.”

Moving back into the hallway, he continued to walk, opening himself, trying to sense things.  “There was a lot of joy in this place, once.  But something changed.”  He could feel a cold creep over the initial warmth he felt.  “Someone changed, and lost control of how things were supposed to be.  Like a boat without navigation.”

He turned and then stopped in the doorway of another room.  Dust cloths covered the furniture here, and a couple of trestle tables with saws and tools sat nearby.  But what stopped him was the man, standing by the fireplace.  He was dressed in a style, similar to the first man, and he was staring up at the portrait of a stunning young woman. 

“You stupid whore.”  The words were angry, and filled with venom.  Killian felt a chill take over the air, ice cold and near him, he could see Ruby shiver, her eyes widening.  “You filthy, dirty slattern.  You were mine!  Mine!  And you threw it all away for what?  Some worthless cripple!”  Suddenly, his hand came back and he threw something.  The sound of shattering glass rang out, and he felt more then saw the camera men jump as the spectral cut crystal decanter smashed into the wall and disappeared.

“Easy, mate.”  Killian said, holding his hands up.  “Easy, I can help you.”

The ghost whirled around, eyes seeming to blaze at him.  “Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Killian Jones.  Look, mate, you’re dead.”  That seemed to make him angrier.  “I’m sorry.  But I’d like to help you move on.”

“Get out.  This is my house, you need to get out.”  The ghost seemed to be moving towards him.

Killian took one step back.  “Please, I know you’re frightened, but you need to move on.  You’ll be at peace if you do.”

 “GET OUT!” Unexpectedly, the door in front of him slammed shut into his face, and Killian flew backwards into the wall with a thud before sliding limp to the floor.  Ruby’s voice yelling his name was the last thing he hear before he blacked out.

******

Fifteen miles away, Emma Swan sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard.  The man in her dream had been angry, so very angry.  Groping for the light next to her, she blinked as the darkness in the room disappeared in the yellow glow from the shade.  Rain was lashing to side of the building, and she could hear the rumble of thunder outside.

She had been standing in the library, but August and Marco, Mary Margaret and Victor were all gone.  She looked down and found her body in a simple blue gown.  She was herself, but not herself, and there was a man, standing by the fireplace.  He looked like something out of Jane Austen, or maybe some Civil War drama, and he had been so angry, screaming at her.  Vile, awful things.  She had woken up just as he had thrown his glass, shattering it against the portrait.

Emma drew her knees up to her chest and briefly considered calling over to Mary Margaret’s room.  Looking at the clock, it was after 1AM, and she knew they had a full day of looking at LSU’s library and the archives, meeting with the Professor and possibly the sheriff.  It was just a crazy dream, brought on by too much junk food and reading the history of the Frenches before bed.  Her mind was creating stories out of loose threads.  
  
When she could finally breathe again, she switched the light off, snuggling back down under the covers and letting sleep come.  Just as her mind drifted off, she heard two words whispered in the softest of women’s voices.

“Help me.”


	6. Where There's Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, thank you all so much for the feedback. It's more than I think any story I have written has gotten. I am deeply grateful.

“Killian.  Killian!”  The headache that had started at the edge of the property roared to life as he came back around.  “KILLIAN.”

“Ruby.  Stop.”  He blinked a few times and opened his eyes, starring into concerned grey eyes.  “I’m all right.”

David was kneeling next to Ruby, camera off, though Sean was still filming.  “What happened?”

He reached out a hand, and Ruby wordlessly handed him his flask.  He yanked it open and took a long pull before capping it and handing it back.  “There was a man in that room.  Younger than the first, maybe early thirties.  Same time period.  He’s…angry.  Violently angry at the woman in the portrait in there.”  He paused, trying to catch his breath.  “Murderous, maybe.  He…really doesn’t want people here.”

“Do we need to go?”  Ruby asked, her voice serious.  “If it’s too dangerous.”

Killian took a breath.  He would not put his friend in danger, or the crew.  But what had just happened...  “I don’t think so.  I think he was surprised and confused and angry.  But I think he’s trapped here, just as much as anyone.”

“You sure?”  Dave offered him a hand and he let the man pull him up onto his feet.

“Yeah, I’m sure.”  He shook himself gently.  He’d be sore, but he’d had worse, he thought grimly while looking at his prosthetic hand.  “Let’s get on with it.”

Soon they were making their way upstairs.  Killian’s disquiet grew as they moved through the house, the sense of sadness and grief slowly overwhelming the residual warmth and joy he had initially felt.  Lights flickered briefly as they cleared one room, then another.  Some had been painted, some hadn’t, the bare plaster glowing eerily in the moonlight from the windows.  He found no other spirits as they moved. 

Then, near the end of the hallway, he could hear the quiet sound of weeping.  It was feminine and heartbreaking, and glancing back, he could see that the others could hear it too.  David and Sean looked nonplused, but Ruby just eyed him sadly.  It was, he thought, not her first rodeo.

Stopping in front of a mostly closed door, he pushed it open to find the woman from the portrait downstairs.  She stood by the window, starring out onto the back of the property, glittering tears running down her cheeks.  She wore a soft blue ball gown, faded by her incorporeal state to an almost slate grey.  Her hair was falling in dark curls down over her shoulders, and in her lace gloved hands, she clutched a fine lawn handkerchief. 

Killian stepped into the room quietly.  The woman turned and looked at him, shock coloring her features.  “Can you see me?”

“Aye, lass, I can see you.”  He walked forward slowly, his hands out stretched.  “I’m Killian.”

“You have to help me.”  Her voice was desperate, pleading.  “Please, sir, you have to help me find him.”

Killian stopped near her.  “Find who, lass?”

“My love.”  She moved closer to him, the brush of her skirts sending an icy thrill up his leg.  “I have to find him, they took him, and I can’t find him.  I can’t leave without him.”

“The man downstairs, is he your love?”  Killian tried to keep his voice calm, even though he suspected the answer.

The woman shudder, jerking away from him.  “No, he…he is why I am here.  He took my happiness.  Please, help me.”

Just then, a voice roared from another room.  “BELLE.”

“Not again.”  Her agonized whisper chilled him, and she turned, starring straight into his eyes.  “Please.  Help me.”

And then she was gone.    Killian swayed on his feet as the terror and fear that had radiated from her coursed through him.  “What the bloody hell happened to you, lass?” he mumbled.  
  
He turned, his eyes finding Ruby, and surprisingly, David, who hand managed to come into the room and film from a corner.  Sean was shooting through the door of the hallway.  “There was a woman, young and beautiful, maybe in her early 20s.  Her clothes seem to match the other ghosts.  She’s trapped, just as they are.  I think…”

He paused, looking back out the back of the house, into the trees at the edge of the property.  “I think the second ghost, the angry man…I think he killed her.”

*****

Emma woke up feeling anything but rested.  Dreams had come repeatedly through the night, though never the same.  She remembered the angry man, screaming at her. After she had gone back to sleep, she remembered running through trees, the feeling of something chasing her, her dress (the hell?) catching on brambles and roots.  Then she had shifted, and briefly, she was happy in the embrace of a man who clearly loved her, deeply.  Safe.  Then the safety was gone and she was being crushed under a weight, pressed into the hard ground, screaming and kicking.

The last was what woke her again, and she decided enough was enough.  Getting up, she pulled on a sports bra and her running shoes, then grabbed her key card and a bottle of water.  Soon, she was in the small on site gym, pounding out the miles on the treadmill.  Her doctors had said she should give up running, move to an elliptical to ease the impact on her injury, but Emma had stubbornly refused.  She had been running, literally and mentally, her whole life.  Like hell would she stop now.

Only when her legs were burning and she felt like she might throw up did she stop, wiping her face on the hem of her tank top and heading back up to her room.  A shower was the first order, followed by clean clothes.  Today, she paired her red leather jacket with black pants and a white shirt, her hair up in a ponytail.  She was just contemplating going down and checking out the continental breakfast when there was a knock at the door.

She opened it to find Mary Margaret and Ashley waiting for her.  “I thought we might meet and go over the schedule for today.”  The perky producer held out a bag and a cup from a local bakery.  “You seem like a bearclaw kind of girl.”

She raised an eyebrow and stepped back, letting the two of them in.  “I thought Jones was the psychic.”

The two of them laughed.  “Ashley remembered your order from back in New York.”  Emma flushed slightly, feeling ridiculous.  Of course she did.

The three of them set down on the sofa and went over the order of the day.  Professor Michaelson had agreed to meet them at 10:30 AM, and had arranged for Emma to have research privileges at University Special collections after.  Then Sheriff Spencer had agreed to meet with her briefly at 4PM.

Ashley grabbed their empties and tidied up, then headed back down to production HQ to collect some more forms.  Mary Margaret lingered for a moment.  “Emma, are you all right?”

“Fine.”  Emma had been putting things in her messenger bag, but she stopped and turned to look at the woman.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You just seem…tired, I guess.”  Mary Margaret paused, trying to phrase what she wanted to say.  “I know we don’t know each other well, but if the pilot gets picked up, we’ll be spending a lot of time together, and I’d like us to be friends.  If you ever need to talk about anything…”

Emma looked at the sweet, earnest expression on the woman’s face.  “Thank you.  I just slept weird. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.”  She waited for Emma to finish her bag, then they headed down to the SUV.

This time, Ashley rode along in the back with Mary Margaret while Victor filmed her.  She did a short bit about LSU and who they were going to see, then the ride was mostly quiet.   When they got to campus and found the visitor parking, Ashley split off to go meet with the archives director and see if they had a good space to film in, while the others headed to meet the Professor.

Ingrid Michaelson was a lovely blonde woman in her mid-30s, wearing a linen pants suit, her curls pinned up into a loose chignon.  Mary Margaret and Emma introduced themselves and Victor and explained the process, then Emma settled in across the desk from her for the interview.  When Victor nodded, she began.  “I’m speaking with Dr. Ingrid Michaelson, Professor of Louisiana History and Folk Culture at Louisiana State University.  Thank you for meeting with me today, Doctor Michaelson.”

“My pleasure, Emma.  When you called to ask about La Belle Maison, I was deeply intrigued.”  The woman smiled graciously and pushed a folder across the table.  “When I was doing my doctorate, my research was on slave narratives about Louisiana plantations during reconstruction and into the early 20th century.  While there are common elements to many of the stories, there was an oral history to that property that was very unique.”

“About the French family?”  Emma asked, leaning forward and flipping the file folder open.  A print of the portrait above the fireplace starred back at her.

“Yes, exactly.”  Professor Michaelson spoke authoritatively, but passionately.  “They were a family marked by great tragedy.  Maurice French was noted among the narratives for being one of the kinder owners.  He and his wife, Colette, were said to be so happy and in love, and the narratives speak of them adoring their baby girl.”

“And then Colette dies?”  Emma flipped the portrait away, revealing a watercolor of how the house must have looked in the Frenchs’ day.  “While she’s away.”

“Yes.  Yellow Fever was a scourge in the 1800s, especially in New Orleans.  That year saw 210 deaths, including hers.  After that, people said that Maurice lost his way.”  Ingrid smiled sadly.  “He drank too much, began to gamble.  Isabella, the daughter…they called her Belle, was raised largely by one of the house slaves, a nanny called Ursula de la Mar.  Despite his unfortunate neglect, Belle grew into a beautiful and accomplished young woman, and she was considered the greatest catch to come out of her cotillion year.”

“What happened to her?” Emma suddenly remembered the feeling of running through the woods.  Tripping and falling.

“That’s where the narrative splits.  It’s really fascinating.”  Professor Michaelson turned the page for her and she was looking at a man.  Emma’s blood ran cold as his face flashed in her mind, red with rage and screaming at her.  “The official story is that she was engaged, at her father’s request, to this man, Gaston Thibodeaux.  He was their neighbor, and one of the area’s most eligible bachelors.  The official story is that they were very much in love.”

“And the unofficial story?”  Emma was leaning forward as Ingrid flipped another page.  A new face was before her.  This man was older and the picture poor quality.

“Unofficially, Maurice sold his daughter to Thibodeaux to wipe out the gambling debts that would ruin them.”  Emma felt a shudder, but the Professor pushed on.  “On the night of their engagement ball, Belle was found dead on the edge of the woods.  She had been assaulted sexually, and then her throat was slit. Thibodeaux claimed to have come upon this man in the act of trying to hide the body.  He beat him bloody, then strung him up from a tree.  Maurice never recovered.  He killed himself.”

That part of the story was familiar.  Horrifyingly so.  And yet.  “But there’s more to it?”

Michaelson reached down, touching the picture of the other man.  “His name was Robert Gold.  He was an immigrant, Scottish, and he made a living as something of a tinker, selling household goods door to door in the area for three or four years. According to the stories from the slaves on the property after emancipation, he had been kind to Belle.  They said he had once been a Professor in Scotland before his wife and son died in an outbreak of cholera.  He made a point of bringing her books he thought she would like.”

Emma knew, suddenly.  What had happened.  “They fell in love.”

“That’s what the slaves said.  That Belle and Robert wanted to be together, that they decided to flee from her engagement.”  She looked sad.  “The story they tell says that Gaston caught on, and chased them.  That he had his men hold Robert while he raped and murdered Belle, then he hung Robert.  Belle’s body was brought back, and buried in the parish cemetery.  But Robert was buried in an unmarked grave in the woods.”

“Jesus.”  Emma let out a breath she hadn’t know she was holding. 

“There’s more.”  Michaelson flipped leaned back.  “After Maurice’s death, Gaston claimed the estate for his debts.  But the slaves say that Ursula, Belle’s nanny, was a voodoo queen to rival Marie Laveau, and that she had loved the girl fiercely, as she would her own child.  According to the slaves, she laid a curse on Gaston, and he died a slow, agonizing death a few years later.  The next day, Ursula just disappeared.”

Emma tried to compose herself, as another flash of the man’s face, in a rage, popped into her mind.  “Dr. Michaelson, do you think it’s possible that La Belle Maison is haunted?”

The woman considered for a long moment.  “I’ve had odd moments in my own life that defy explanation.  But there was more grief in that house that in almost all the others combined, based on accounts.”  She closed the file and handed it to Emma.  “After Thibodeux’s death, the property never held anyone long.  So I suppose if any of these old properties would be haunted, it would be this one.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”  Emma shook her hand and Victor cut the feed. 

“Miss Swan.”  Emma stopped what she was doing and turned back to the older woman.  “Be careful.  If the house is haunted, and the spirit is Thibodeaux, he was a very dangerous man.”

Emma nodded, then realized she hadn’t asked.  “Mary Margaret, has anyone heard from Jones and his team.”

The brunette paled.  “I hadn’t checked, I figured they were sleeping.”

“Call them.  Just to be sure.”


	7. A Change in the Wind

The rest of the walkthrough had been eerie.  No other ghosts manifested in the house.  Killian had insisted they check the property, so they had gone out the back.  Here, Killian could see people, slaves who had once worked the plantation.  They were mostly silent, shying away from him and the crew, sadness and pain and grief radiating from them.  He felt it in his bones, weighing him down and draining him.

Ruby followed him, closer than she usually did, clearly worried about him.  He was thankful for her, for the place she had in his life.  For pulling him out of the hole Liam’s death had left him in; for setting his course right after Milah.  He worried, sometimes, that all the things she did in gratitude to him were keeping her from living her own life.

As they walked through the area where the slave cabins once stood, he stopped.  There was a presence here, a force that was stronger and freer than the others.  However, trying to get close to it, to learn more, was like slamming into a brick wall.  It was powerful, whatever it was, and it scared him more than a little bit.

He had been about to call an end to the night when he spotted the figure on the edge of the woods.  Walking toward it, he saw the figure of a man, starring out from the edge of the trees.  He was older than the angry man, but perhaps not as old as the sad man in the parlor.  He didn’t seem to see him, or the crew.  Instead, he starred up at the house.  Killian turned and was surprised to see a glow, as if a lantern was lit in the window of the upstairs room.  From where he stood, he could make out the face of the woman starring back, her eyes scanning the trees.

“Oh, Belle.”  The voice was wrecked, the accent thick.  “My love.”  Killian turned back to see the man raise a hand, as if to reach for her.  Then he disappeared.

The emotions that had washed over him were intense.  Love, longing, joy, then terror, heartbreak, rage, despair, and fear.  “You poor bastard.”  Killian leaned against a tree for a minute, rubbing his temples with his good hand.

“There was a man,” he said, not bothering to open his eyes, trusting Ruby and David to get the shot.  “He wasn’t from here originally, he came to this country.  He was in love with the woman.  Deeply, deeply in love.  But something went wrong.  And now he can’t reach her.  He’s trapped too.  It’s like they’re all trapped.”

“So, what do we do?”  Ruby’s voice was calm and determined, which just made what he had to say next that much harder.

“I don’t know.  I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

******

Emma found herself breathing a sigh of relief when Mary Margaret got David on the phone.  She couldn’t hear what was being said, only saw Mary Margaret giving her the thumbs up.  After all, they couldn’t contaminate the findings.  She didn’t want to analyze why she felt so relieved that Killian Jones and his crew were all right.  That way lay madness.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, with a search of special collections turning up pretty much the same information that Professor Michaelson had given her.  The visit to Sheriff Spencer was also a bust.  The man was neither particularly welcoming, nor particularly knowledgeable.  All he was able to tell her was that there had been no major crime on the property in all the years he could remember.  He did say, however, that back when the property sat vacant and nearly condemned before the tax sale, they would occasionally get reports from kids who had broken in the party, saying it was haunted.

“Let me be frank with you, Miss Swan.  I think those little brats were likely drunk or high, or both.”  George Spencer, with his nearly bald head and his menacing face reminded her of some stereotypical Southern movie sheriff.  “People make up stories of ghosts and the like to distract from their sad little lives.  Archie Hopper is no different.  Sad and alone, except for his dog.  Who can blame him for wanting something exciting?”

“Who indeed, Sheriff.  Well, thank you for meeting with us.”  Emma shook the man’s hand.  Three days ago, she would have likely said the same.  Now, though, she didn’t know.  So much tragedy and horror in one place. 

Mary Margaret had suggested they stop in town for dinner.  The four of them passed a companionable couple of hours, eating and talking.  Well, the others talked.  Emma mainly poked at her jambalaya and thought back over what they had learned.  She didn’t believe in ghosts, or voodoo, or the like.  But she wondered if maybe that kind of emotion could touch a place, leave a palimpsest of itself behind that people could feel.  Maybe that’s what had caused her dreams.

The sun was setting when they got back, and she changed into lounge pants and a long sleeve t-shirt.  She was tired, nearly exhausted, but at the same time, memories of her dreams made her hesitant to sleep.  Remembering the pool out back of the hotel, she grabbed her key card and slipped on some flip flops.  The halls were mostly deserted as she made her way to the back stairs and down.

The air was warm and thick with humidity as she pushed open the gate around the pool.  She sighed and leaned down, rolling her pants legs up and slipping her shoes off.  Water lapped at her calves as she sat on the concrete lip and let her legs dangle into the water.  Leaning her head back, she looked up at the moon and what she could see of the stars.

“Beautiful, aren’t they Swan?”  The voice came from a corner of the pool in shadow, and Emma nearly fell in as she jerked around.  Killian Jones was laying quietly on a deck chair.  His injured arm was tucked under his head as he turned his expression back to the sky.

“What the hell, Jones?”  Emma pushed herself back from the lip of the pool.  “Are you trying to scare me to death?”

“You’re made of sterner stuff than that, love.”  She could hear the humor in his tone, and for some reason she was torn between wanting to throttle him and wanting to get closer to him.

“Not your love.”  She moved to stand.

“Sit back down, Swan.  I’m not here to try to wheedle information from you.”  Jones kept his eyes off of her, staring intently at the sky.  “I was here first, after all.”

“Why should I believe you?”  Emma could hear the bitterness in her voice, and she kicked herself for letting that kind of vulnerability show through. 

“Try something new, darling.  It’s called trust.”  He reached up and scratched behind his ear.  “I’m out here for the same reasons as you.”

Emma moved warily toward him, sitting down on the next lounge over, a respectable distance away.  “What do you know about my reasons?”

This time, Jones did look at her.  Pulling out his flask, he took a sip, then passed it to her.  Emma took a pull, shuddering as the rum burned its way down her throat.  “You’re an open book, Swan.”

“Oh, yeah?”

Jones raised his eyebrow at her.  “You’ve been alone most of your life.  Your eyes have the look of an orphan, that look you get when everyone you’ve ever cared about betrays you or leaves you.  Love has been all too rare in your life.”

Emma felt air back up in her lungs.  Jones just kept going.

“You want justice for what happened to you, but you don’t think you’ll ever get it, so you focused on justice for others.  It’s why you became a cop.”  His eyes bore into hers, and she fought down the urge to run.  She wasn’t going to let the bastard throw her.  “You’ve been adrift since your injury forced you off the force.  You don’t want to admit that this is a fascinating opportunity, but you enjoy the thrill of the chase.  And you’re out here, tonight, instead of snug and safe in your room, because something about this place disturbs you, and you don’t feel like sleep will come.”

It was accurate, eerily accurate and Emma felt it down to her bones.  No one had ever read her quite the way that this man had.  “Or maybe I’m just an insomniac.”

“Sure thing, lass.”  Jones was quiet for a long time, and Emma found herself starring at the stars again.  When his voice came again, she startled.  “Less than a year, right?”

“What?”

“You lost your friend less than a year ago,” Jones said.  Emma felt her blood grow cold.  “You feel guilty, because he wanted to be more with you, but you weren’t there yet, emotionally.  So you wear that shoelace on your wrist as a talisman of what you lost.”

“What the fuck, Killian?”  Even to her own ears, her voice sounded ragged.

“He told me.  He wants you to know that it’s okay.  That he doesn’t blame you.”  Emma’s flight response kicked into high gear now.  “He wants you to know he just wants you to be happy, Emma.”

“Screw you, Jones.  Just because you have some dossier on me, don’t think you know me.”  She scrambled to her feet.  “The last thing I need is a two bit con trying to get in my head.  Just leave me alone.”

And with that, she fled back into the hotel and away from the maelstrom of emotions he’d just stirred inside her.  Because Emma knew when someone was lying to her, and she had seen nothing but the truth in his troublesome blue eyes.  And that scarred the hell out of her.

******

Killian watched her run and sighed, hard.  He looked at the figure standing next to him, watching Emma with sad eyes.  “I’m sorry, mate.  I tried.”

“She’s strong.  She’ll be all right.”  Graham’s specter looked at him and gave him a half smile.  “Keep her safe for me?”

“I will.”  Killian watched as the man gave him a last nodded, and then turned shimmery.  Then he winked out of sight.

Killian’s head fell back against the chaise.  The moon was bright tonight, but the stars were woefully dim.  Too much light pollution between Baton Rouge to the north and New Orleans to the south.  He remembered nights with Liam, sailing in the Navy, when they’d take turns naming as many constellations as they could.

It was a poor distraction from his encounter with Emma Swan though.  She was intriguing and beguiling, and he would admit, infuriating.  He had never met someone so determined not to believe.  He wondered if Graham had tried to make contact in the time he had been haunting her, or if he had been content to merely watch her live her life.

Still, he could sense that Emma had potential.  That there was something extra about her, different.  He half wondered if whatever that ability was made her that much more skeptical.

Sighing, he rose and headed back inside.  He hadn’t slept since the afternoon before, and he was exhausted.  Maybe he’d get some rest tonight.

Back in his room, with the lights off, he’d lain awake for a while before sleep finally claimed him.  He was drifting in it, a memory of him and Liam when he was very young, at the beach with their mother.  It was a good place, and he felt at peace.

At least until the scream split the night, wrenching him from sleep with a certainty he felt in the marrow of his bones.  He was awake and running down the hall before he was even aware of it, calling out one word.

“Swan!”

 


	8. All Just a Little Bit of History Repeating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: So, my muse got a little dark. There is some violence in this chapter, and vague description of sexual assault. Potential for triggers. Please be warned.

Emma had gone to sleep deeply disturbed by what Killian had said to her.  She had tried to write it off as carefully research chicanery.  After all, they had been given dossiers on each other.  News articles about her shooting, Graham’s death, were out there.  But how had he known…

They had gone out together after work the night before.  The two of them, and Will and Alice from Vice, Liz from White Collar Crimes.  They had a couple of drinks in the dive cop bar near the precinct, playing darts (she and Graham had always killed at darts) and pool until the others had left, drifting home to spouses or significant others.  They had walked out together around 10 PM, walking into the weird, moist heat of Boston in late summer.

“Listen, Emma.  I wanted to ask you something.”  Graham had stopped, standing away from the door and just out of the circle of light cast from the bar’s windows. 

“Yeah?”  Emma waited, watching him.  They’d been partners a while, and she had sensed something was bothering him.

“You know I’ve always thought highly of you, and you’re the closest thing to family I have…”  He trailed off, looking embarrassed.

“You’re close to me too, Graham.  You’ve always meant a lot to me.”  Now she was getting nervous.  Was he sick or something?  Did he not want to be partners anymore?

Graham hesitated again for a long moment.  Then she saw the decision in his eyes.  “Sod it.”  And then he was backing her into the wall and kissing her.  Emma froze, shocked at the change in her friend.  What the…

“Graham!” She pushed him away.  “What the hell?”

Now, he looked mortified. “Emma, I’m sorry.  I…fuck, I’ve ruined everything, haven’t I?”  He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes sorrowful.

Emma sighed.  “Look, Graham.  It’s not that I don’t care about you.  Or that I don’t find you attractive, because I do.  It’s just…”

“You don’t feel for me the way I feel for you.”  Now he just looked sad.

“Not right now.  And I can’t say I ever will.  I’m sorry.”  She reached out, squeezing his arm.  “But you haven’t ruined it all.  I can’t imagine not having you as a partner.”

“I’ll always be your partner, Emma.”  He gave her a quick hug.  “Always.”

Always turned out to be less than a day.  They had pulled up outside the house in the rougher end of Boston, ready to knock on doors and talk to witnesses in what was likely a mob hit between rival gangs in Southie.  It shouldn’t have been especially dangerous.  They’d done similar things a thousand and one times before.  And Graham had been light that morning, bringing her the usual bearclaw, making jokes about her taste in breakfast and music.  Like the night before hadn’t happened.  Like everything was entirely okay between them.  And then the shots rang out, and she felt burning fire through her leg, felt it give and her body slam into the ground.

And Graham had screamed her name and turned.  Whizzzzzz, pack. And then he had thudded down next to her, his eyes coming to meet hers.  Blood was pouring from a wounded in his neck and burbling out of his mouth, and Graham, no, no, no.  She felt dark and dizzy as she grabbed her radio.  Officers down, under fire, corner of 2nd and M Street.  Graham, please, stay…

And then Graham was dead, and Emma wondered if things would have been different.  They say one change can alter the course of fate.  If she had been open to the idea of Graham as something more than a partner and a friend; if they had gone home together…would anything have changed?  It had haunted her since the day she woke up in the hospital. 

And now, Killian Jones had told her he had been literally haunting her.  Bullshit.  She would have known, right?  Her fingers traced the worn leather of Graham’s shoe lace.  She had snuck it from his locker before the funeral, wrapping and tying it around her wrist.  A silent reminder of what could have been. 

But she had dreams, all these months.  That last night with Graham.  Her rookie case after getting her shield.  The time they had to literally wade through a sewer looking for a murder weapon.  His eyes and his smile and the sound of his laugh.  She had dreamed of him so often, she forgot what it was like to dream of anything else.  Until last night and the dreams about this case.

Asleep now, she was running through the forest again, her dress catching on things, her heart pounding in her chest.  Any moment she was going to trip and he was going to catch her.  But she had to get them away from him.  Away from her love, let him get clear.  She’d give everything to save him. 

Her foot caught and she slammed forward, the smack of the ground forcing the air from her lungs.  Before she could breathe, he was on her, flipping her over, holding her down.  Anything, just…and then she saw him, bloody and held between two men.  One yanked his hair back to make him watch as her pursuer, in a rage, slapped her hard across the face, the reached down, ripping the skirt from the bodice of her gown.

They had lost.  Distantly, she heard him crying out, begging them to let her go, please, kill him, but let her go.  It hurt, it hurt, oh god, the weight of him dug sticks and roots into her back, scrapping her legs.  When it stopped, she looked to the side, her eyes finding his.  I’m sorry, so sorry, so sorry.

Her pursuer laughed, then looked at the men holding her love.  “String him up.”  Only then did she see the rope around his neck.  One of the men threw the end of it over a limb, and jerk, up her went.  And she started fighting, screaming and clawing, trying so hard to save him.  So hard, and it was eternity and then and instant, and he was gone.  She saw the light leave his eyes.

“See you in hell, you filthy whore.”  And then the knife flashed, and there was a moment’s pain.  And then oblivion.

******

His bare feet pounded down the hallway, coming to a stop outside her room as her screams echoed.  He brought his fist up, pounding on the door as Mary Margaret and David tumbled out of a room across the hall.  It would be an interesting discovery, otherwise, but he was ready to kick the door down to get to Emma, when her voice cut out in mid-scream. “EMMA!”

“Wait, I have a key.”  Mary Margaret pushed past him and swiped a card, and the little light flashed blessedly green.  He wrenched the handle and shoved, flying forward and nearly breaking his neck trying to miss the coffee table in the living room area of the suite.

David or Mary Margaret must have flipped a switch, because the overhead light by the door came on, giving him just enough light to see by.  Emma lay on the bed.  Her body was stiff, like she had been struggling, hands up by her face in fists.  Tears streaked down her face, and her mouth was open, gasping for air.  Without a thought, he scrambled onto the bed, cupping her cheek with his hand.  “Emma.  Swan, come on.  Come back to me.”

Abruptly, she shuddered and her body went limp.  Then her eyes flew open, terrified and wide.  “Killian?”

“Jesus Christ, love, you scared the hell out of us.”  Behind him, he saw Mary Margaret hesitate before David put a hand on her shoulder and led her out, shutting the door behind them.

Emma was shaking now, and he gathered her into his arms, holding her and letting his hand rub her back, the way his mum and Liam did when he was a boy.  “I’ve got you, Swan, it’s all right.”

“He killed her.”  Her words were muffled by his neck, and he had to strain to hear.  “That bastard fucking killed her.”

“Who killed who, Swan?”  His voice was soft, and he felt her huff out a sigh. 

“I can’t tell you.  And it was a dream.  Right?”  It was a statement and a question.  “Because I’ve been investigating, and I know the story.  It’s just a dream.”

“Bloody awful by the sound of your scream.”  He pulled back a little.  “You saw it?”

Another shudder wracked her frame, and he was shocked someone as solid and strong as she was could seem so helpless for a moment.  “I was living it.  I felt it, saw it.  Felt death.”

He had nothing to say to that, so he just held her as she whispered to herself, “It’s only a dream, it’s only a dream.”

Finally, she looked up at him.  “I’m sorry I woke you.”

“No apologies, love.”  He gave her that soft, understanding smile he had earlier, when he was talking about Graham.  “You should lay down, try to get some sleep.”

“Not happening.”  Her voice trembled just a bit. Killian took in the lingering pain and horror in her eyes.  Carefully, he scooted them down until they were laying side by side on the bed.  “Jones?”

“I’ll stay, Swan.  You won’t be alone.”  He felt her suck in a surprised breath as his hand continued to stroke her hair softly.  “Don’t worry, Emma, you can go back to hating me in the morning.”

She didn’t say anything, just lay curled against him.  Eventually, her breathing became even, and she relaxed, her head pillowed against his shoulder. 

His last thoughts as sleep drifted back up to claim him was that she would bloody well be the death of him.


	9. The Morning After the Night Before

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, I can't believe the amazing feedback you guys are sending me. I am going to try to keep up posting this weekend, but it will depend on time.

Emma woke up warm and disoriented.  A body, tall and solid and smelling deliciously male, was laying under where she was sprawled.  An arm trailed under her head and up around her back, holding her securely, causing her emotions to war between a deep sense of safety and a need to run like hell away.  She thought back to the night before, trying to remember if she had brought someone back to her room.  Then it hit her.  The pool, Killian, his words about Graham…and that dream. 

Her pulse kicked up a notch as the emotions of it flooded back- fear, grief, terror, loss.  Her grip reflexively tightened on the form in her arms, and she felt the man shift, his hand gently rubbing her back.

“Swan?” His voice was rough, like gravel and whiskey, the accent thickened by sleep.  Emma opened her eyes to find Killian’s blue ones looking into hers in the morning light.

“Why are we in bed together?”  Her voice was brittle and unsure, and she hated that.  Hated feeling out of control like this.

“You had a nightmare, lass.  Woke us all up screaming.”  At that, she remembered her eyes flying open to Killian kneeling on her bed, cupping her face in his hand, then drawing her up and holding her as the terror left her body.  His touch had been kind and affectionate, and a part of her wanted that.  Wanted it more than she could say.  Wanted the accent and the pet names.

But the part of her that had been burned, broken, and left locked down.  She couldn’t.  No matter how much she wanted, she just…she couldn’t.  She pulled away from him.  “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Emma…”

“The integrity of the show rests on us not discussing the case.  Or even appearing to discuss the case.”  She moved from the bed and stood, leaning against the wall.  “I appreciate last night, but you should go.”

“Emma, lass, have I ever told you a lie?” He moved, coming to stand near her, close enough to touch, but restraining himself.  “Have I asked you to tell me anything about the case?”

“Killian, please.  I’m…sorry, but I can’t take the chance I’m wrong about you.”  She pushed away and slipped past him.  “I’m going to shower.  Please go before I come out.”

As she walked past him into the bathroom, she heard him sigh softly.  “As you wish.”

*****

Killian was sitting in his room, starring at the sketch pad in front of him.  Regina had originally suggested pairing him with a local sketch artist, until he had explained that he was actually fairly artistic.  Now, he was waiting for Ruby and Sean to come find him.  They planned to use one of the small meeting rooms in the hotel to film this bit, rather than his room.

In the meantime, he picked up a pencil and began sketching something only tangentially related to the case.  Soft lines made the outline of a face, followed by hair, long and curling.  He quirked one of the eyebrows up in a look of sardonic skepticism, bringing the look into her eyes.

“Oh shit, Cap, you fell for her.”  Killian jumped, the pencil skittering across the image.  He’d been so engrossed in what he was doing he didn’t hear Ruby use the spare key card he’d gotten her and walk into his room.  Glancing around, he saw that Sean wasn’t with her.  She seemed to catch on.  “I told him to meet us downstairs.”

Killian sighed and leaned back, his eyes closed.  “I’ve not fallen for anyone, Ruby.”

“Bullshit.”  Ruby flopped down next to him on the couch.  “Killian, we’ve been friends for almost three years.  I was there for Milah.  And you never drew a picture of her that looked remotely like that.”

He opened his eyes and looked, seeing through her mind’s eye.  The picture looking back at him was infused with a sense of wonder and adoration and…”Bloody fucking hell.”

“I don’t know if this ends well, Cap.”  Ruby put an arm around his shoulder, giving him her patented Bro Hug.  “But I’m here for you.  You know that right.”

“I know, Ruby Tuesday.  I know.”  Sighing, he tore the page from the sketch pad and put it away carefully, then stood.  “We should go meet Sean, get this filmed.  I probably will want a nap before the reveal tonight.”

“Fine, but we should probably talk about this more, figure out what you’ve going to do.”  Ruby let him pull her up to standing. 

“Maybe.”  He let go of her hand.  “In the meantime, can I distract you with better gossip?”

“Always.”  Ruby chuckled.  “Bring it on.”

“I think that our dear producer and our director of crew photography are doing the do, as it were.”

“Shut up!”  And with that, they headed out down the hall.

******

Emma felt out of sorts.  She had all the facts she needed to do her half of the reveal.  There was nothing else she really needed to be doing.  And yet…

Mary Margaret answered her door on the first knock.  “Emma!  How are you this morning?”

Emma realized that Killian wasn’t the only one she had awakened, since Mary Margaret was right across the hall.  That also explained how he had gotten into her room.  The producer had a key for all of them.

“Better, thanks.  Sorry about last night.”  Emma felt herself blush slightly.  She hated being vulnerable like that in front of anyone.

“Don’t worry about it.”  Mary Margaret smiled widely at her.  “What can I do for you this morning?”

“This is going to sound weird, but can we go back out to the property, this morning?”  Emma found herself scratching behind her ear, and Killian flashed into her mind.  God, stop.  “I just…I’d like to walk around the wider property some.”

Mary Margaret smiled at her widely.  “Sure!  I was just saying to David that we could use some atmosphere shots of you around the house and the property, looking detective-y.”  The woman smiled at her so brightly Emma couldn’t help smiling back.  “I’ll just call down and left Victor and David know.  And we’ll bring Ashley along, so she can start staging things for the reveal filming this evening.”

“Great.  I’ll just go…get ready.”  Emma turned around to go when Mary Margaret stopped her.

“Did Killian get back to bed last night?”  Emma cringed at the question.

“Yeah.  He did.”  Mary Margaret seemed oblivious.

“Oh, good.  Well, see you soon!?’  And with that, she was gone.

An hour later, they were crunching up the gravel drive of the property.  Ashley had called ahead to let Archie know they were coming, so they pulled around back by the carriage house he had turned into a small townhome and parked.  Ashley hopped out, heading toward the house with David to pre-block things for that evening.  Mary Margaret smiled at Emma again, that almost maternal smile that was soothing and grating for her all at once.

“Do you and Victor need me, or…?” Her voice trailed off, eyes trailing after David and oh.  Oh.  Her mind flashed back to last night, and seeing them just past Killian in her doorway, the easy intimacy of David’s hand on her shoulder.

“Go.  We’ll be fine.”  Emma gave her what she hoped was a reassuring smile and watched as she hurried off after the others.  She turned to find Victor grinning.  “What?”

“They think they’re subtle.  It’s hilarious.”  He reached into the back, messing with the camera rig.  “Ready to wander around?”

Emma nodded, and watched as he lifted it up.  Switching it on, he gave her a thumbs up and she nodded, then turned and started walking.  Ingrid Michaelson had given her a copy of an old plat survey of the property from the time when Gaston Thibodeaux took it over, and she visualized it as she walked.  The main house, the carriage house.  Over to the left would have been a smoke house and the root cellar, close to the kitchens.  Further back towards the woods were depressions in the grass where she knew that the slave quarters would have stood.

A small road to the left ran down to where the sugar house had been by the river, where the cane grown on the estate was processed.  The woods created a screen between it and the house.  Emma walked silently, letting her mind wander.  She could almost picture the buildings, people moving through and around them.  Looking back up toward the house, she imagined Isabella sitting on the porch, book in hand, perhaps with her nanny.  Perhaps with her father. 

Turning, she found herself looking into the woods.  A sense of déjà vu, of dread, washed through her and she swayed for a moment on her feet before she tamped it down.  It had been nothing but a dream.  Squaring her shoulders, she walked into the trees.

The brightness of the day dimmed between the broad oak leaves and the Spanish moss.  She could smell the loam in the soil, and hear the sound of insects around her.  So eerily similar.  She closed her eyes, listening and feeling.  Her heart began to beat a little bit faster, and the familiar sense of fear began to creep in again.  Then, everything shifted.

“Hurry, love.”  She was looking at the man, and it was Killian.  Only not.  She knew it wasn’t Killian.  “We’ve got to run.  They know.”

“Go.  I’ll lead them away from you.”  It was her voice, but it wasn’t her voice.  “Hurry.  They can’t catch you.  They’ll kill you.”

“No, I won’t leave you.”  Killian but not grabbed her hands.  “Please.”

“If you love me, you’ll run.  Go.”  The look in his eyes, horror and loss.  “We’ll find a way, but go.  Hurry.”

Then he was kissing her, passionately, and Emma felt heat and longing course through her body, before he pulled away and ran.  In the distance, she heard a dog bay, and fear turned to terror in her veins.  She ran.  The last thing her mind heard before everything went black was Victor calling her name.

******

Killian had decided against sketching Belle.  After all, she looked exactly like her portrait.  Instead, he focused on the three men.  First the sad man in the parlor, all grey lines and mournful eyes.  Then the man from the woods, the anguish and the longing as he had starred up at the house.  Finally, the angry man.  He was all heavy black lines, rage and power seeming to ooze off the page. 

He was exhausted when he was done, emotionally drained, and he could see Ruby’s look for concern.  At the same time, though, he was also too keyed up to relax.  Something was gnawing at him, something he couldn’t name.  He suggested to Ruby and Sean that they grab some lunch, then head out to the property early, see if they could help set up for tonight.

After a quick meal at the café he had found the other night, the three of them rode in silence toward Le Belle Maison.  As they got closer, the cold knot of dread in his stomach grew more intense. Ruby was driving, and he found his hand gripping the arm rest on his door. 

“Shit.”  Sean had seen it first, the lights of an ambulance through the trees along the drive. 

“Ruby, stop the car.”  He didn’t wait for her to put it in park before he was out the door and running. 

“Emma!”  He could hear the others behind him, boots on gravel as he sped up the drive.  As he rounded the side of ambulance, he nearly went to his knees in relief.  Emma was sitting on the back, grimacing slightly as a paramedic put butterfly bandages on a cut on her forehead.  “What happened?”

“Low blood sugar, probably.”  The paramedic drawled as he worked.  “Happens sometimes.  Miss Swan here said she hasn’t been good about eating regular this trip.”  He placed a last bandage.  “There you go, Miss.  Good as new.”

“Thanks.”  Emma stood stiffly, avoiding his eyes.  “Sorry to drag you out here.”

“It’s what they pay me for.”  He offered her his hand, helping her up.  “Have a great rest of your visit.”

Emma stood awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Killian.  Ruby glanced at him, then grabbed Sean and Mary Margaret, pulling them towards the house with some line about breathing space and set up.

“What happened, love?”  He felt his heart sink a little when she visibly flinched at the endearment. 

“I fainted.  It was stupid.”  She looked away from him like she was trying to find an escape route.  “Don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry, Swan.”  He sighed and reached out, gently laying his hand on her arm.  “I know that it’s been rare in your life to have people care, Swan, but please, let me help.”

“You’ve done enough!”  Now she sounded angry and he recoiled just a bit.  “I was just fine, before I met you.  And now I…I don’t know what to think.  I keep having these dreams and visions, and you tell me my dead partner was haunting me.  I had a normal life!  And meeting you has done nothing but fuck it up.”

Now Killian became angry.  “You think you have the market cornered on shit happening to you, lass?  My mother died when I was a lad.  My father fucking walked out on us.  Liam, my brother, raised me, and he was all I had.  Then our navy mission went awry, and I lost him and my bloody hand.”  He was yelling, but it felt good.  It felt good to let out all the hurt and the anger and the sadness he’d carried.  “Met a woman I thought understood me, thought she loved me.  It was a con.  And this, Emma.  This ability I have, this thing I can do.  I’ve had it since I can remember.  I’ve seen the dead, and felt their emotions and their pain and their deaths for years.  So excuse me, Emma Swan, if my pity for you is running thin.  I’ve got problems of my own!”

Emma stood before him, blinking.  He found his breathe ragged, his chest heaving.  Even with the air of the place, the sadness and the grief and the fear, he felt freer than he had in a long time.  She continued to stare at him for a long time, and finally, he couldn’t take it.  “Going to say something, Swan?”

She stepped forward then, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and hauling him to her.  It was heat and fire and his mind spun off as her tongue invaded his mouth, dueling with his, teeth grazing his lip.

It was over so fast he nearly came off his access.  “That was…”

“A onetime thing.”  And then she was gone, headed toward the house.


	10. Running Against the Wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, my geriatric laptop is back up and running. Hoping to manage a double update today. Thanks again for all the feedback. It is much appreciated.

She walked away because she was afraid if she thought about it, she’d run and never look back. How could she be so stupid? Kissing him…. And yet, she’d wanted to. Down to the cells of her being, she had wanted to know if the fire and the passion and the smugness in his eyes were true, if he was real. Wanted to smell and touch and taste him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Her words came out mumbled. This was so very, very bad. If the show got picked up, if she decided to stay with it, she’d be stuck with him, and then where would they be? Emma Swan didn’t do relationships, not anymore. Not after…well, not after that.

Add to that she was now having waking dreams or visions or something. Maybe she was experiencing a mental break. Captain Lance had tried to get her to talk to the department shrink before she had been medically retired, and had encouraged her to find a therapist after she left. But she had had her fill of head-shrinking and counselors when she was in the system, and she had steadfastly refused. Maybe this was PTSD or stress or something and she was actually going insane.

She entered the house, and heard the sound of people moving around in what was the formal dining room. The crew, blocking things out for their shots. They’d start filming the reveal part of the episode in a couple of hours. And then this would all be over, because Killian Jones had to be a fraud, and she would end up demonstrating that. The pilot would fail, and she’d go back to her life…alone.

After all, she was happiest alone. Wasn’t she?

*****

Killian sat on the back porch steps, drinking from his flask. Not enough to get drunk, just enough to take the edge off. He’d let it go too far, this infatuation with Emma Swan. He’d let her get under his skin, and into his heart, and now…well, now he really was royally screwed. He knew Emma would tell the truth tonight during the reveal. After all, truth was something she held paramount. He could tell that from the moment he’d met her. And he’d been careful to always tell her the truth.

So tonight, he would tell what he had seen, and she would verify it, and the show would get picked up…and she would run. Back to New York, and then to Boston and wasn’t it an irony that they had been so close all these years, only to meet like this now. But as sure as he knew anything, he knew she was going to end up running from this. And that just might be the ruination of him.

“Aren’t you a sad son of a bitch.” The voice came unexpected and unfamiliar, and his head jerked up to find a woman standing…no, floating before him. Even as an apparition, she was beautiful, with rich, mocha colored skin and dark hair peeking out from under a white linen turban. Her dress was the same white linen, and disappeared as she faded out just past her knees.

“And aren’t you direct. Some kind of vodun Queen, perhaps?” He looked at the spirit and felt the power emanating off of her.

“Don’t talk about what you don’t know, Mr. Jones.” The spirit looked at him, starring him in the eye. “My people were Haitian. I was a Mambo. Not some cheap back parlor hack like Marie LeVeau.”

“My apologies, my lady. Clearly you were powerful enough for your revenge.” He inclined his head to her. “The angry man died by your hand, yes?”

“He refused my request, so he paid dear for what he did to my girl.” The woman seemed to be fading out. “And he will keep paying, until she has peace. Him and Master Maurice.”

Just then, Ruby opened the back door and called, “Killian? We’re ready.”

Killian turned back to the ghost, who had become almost invisible. “How do we help you do that?”

“You’ll see.” And with that, she was gone. Killian couldn’t ignore the feeling that things were going to get much more interesting before the night was over.

******

Ashley and Mary Margaret stood watching from the door as Emma and Killian sat down with Archie, Marco, and August. Ruby sat back, in view of the camera, but out of the way, like a protective guard dog behind Killian. David, Sean, and Victor were all positioned around the room, out of each other’s shots, but at angles that would give them maximum coverage. Mary Margaret did a count down, then called for action.

Emma spoke. “Archie, Marco, August, this is my partner, Killian Jones.” She tried to ignore the way he looked at her as she said that, and the rush of heat she felt. “We have both investigated in our own way, but we haven’t shared our results until now. I’d like Killian to tell us about what he encountered on his walk through, and then we’ll see if I can corroborate any of it. Killian?”

He gave her what he hoped was a truly winning smile. “Thank you, Emma.” Turning to the three men, he spoke calmly, but firmly. “In my experience, the older the property, the more potential it has for spirits to attach to it, and linger. Particularly one that has as much history as La Belle Maison. The first thing I noted on the property was a large number of individuals who I believe were slaves attached to the property before your Civil War. Not unexpected.”

He paused, taking a sip of the water that Ruby had gotten for him. “The next person I encountered was an older man, in the parlor. His clothes put him at the middle of the 19th century. He had a lot of despair surrounding him, and grief and loss. I believe his family died here, and he may have taken his own life from grief.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emma’s mouth drop open. “Maybe the original owner?”

Archie looked at Emma. “Miss Swan, does that match your findings?”

Emma found her mouth gaping for a moment, then she nodded. It was all sort of generic still it could be a lucky guess. “Maurice French built the house in the last 1820s for his bride, Colette. She gave him a daughter, but died away from home. And you are right, Maurice did commit suicide.” Emma considered her next words, then decided to just lob a shot. “Good guess, Killian.”

“Still so skeptical, Ms. Swan.” Killian smirked at her. “I’m going to go a little out of order now. In the woods out back, I encountered another man, younger than Mr. French, but of the same era. He loved someone in the house very deeply, a woman. And he died because of their relationship. This man was a foreigner, an immigrant.”

The blood in her veins ran cold as Emma listened to him. This was beyond a lucky guess. “How did you know that?” She hadn't realized she was speaking out loud.

“He told me, Swan.” He paused, and this time the look he shot her was sympathetic. “I also met the lady. One of the other spirits called her Belle. She was young, maybe 21 or 22, and very beautiful. She loved the man in the woods, but she was promised to another. In the end, her choice led to her brutal murder. It's why her father killed himself.”

Emma had dropped her hands under the table to hide the shaking. When Archie and the others looked to her, she nodded. “Isabella French, called Belle, was Maurice’s daughter. The man in the woods would be Robert Gold, an itinerant tinker and former Professor of literature she fell in love with. The official story is that he kidnapped, raped, and killed her.”

This time it was Killian’s turn to shake his head violently. “That’s not what happened, Swan!”

“History is written by the winners, Killian.” She turned back towards Archie, giving Victor a clean shot. “There were extensive narratives taken after the war with slaves in the area, and they all tell a very different story. Maurice lost his way after Colette died, and got into debt gambling. He engaged his daughter to a neighbor, Gaston Thibodeaux, in exchange for wiping out the debt.”

“I believe I met Thibodeaux in the library. He was enraged at the girl for betraying him.” Killian paused and took a deep breath. “I believe he murdered her.”

Emma tried to keep her breathing even, her face and voice neutral. There was no way he could have known. Unless someone on the crew had leaked it. But surely not in the middle of the night. “That is what the slave narratives say. He killed both Belle and Robert Gold.” She paused. “Killian, I understand you did some sketches?”

He nodded and Ruby handed over the sealed envelope. Opening it, he laid the three drawings out on the table. “That’s Mr. French, and Robert Gold. The last is Gaston Thibodeaux, I believe.” Emma felt like she might pass out. Looking out from the sketches were the three men she had seen in the Michaelson file. “Lass, you look stunned.”

Without a word, Emma moved the sketches apart, then took out each copy of the photos in turn, laying them side by side with the sketches. August let out a whistle and Marco crossed himself. Archie seemed to be going back and forth between them. “Utterly remarkable.” There was no question Killian’s sketches were the three men.

“So, are they dangerous?” August asked the question, looking at Killian. He in turn looked at Emma, noticing she looked pale.

“Ghosts can cause harm, and that is cause for concern. But the sad reality is, most ghosts want to move on.” He thought of the overdose victim from the night before, the one he had helped before heading down to the pool. “The real concern here is that all of these ghosts seem trapped. And I think I know why.”

“She’s trapped because he’s not with her.” Emma was looking at Gold’s picture. “Belle is buried in the parish cemetery, but Gold is said to be in an unmarked grave in the woods.”

“That makes what the last ghost told me make sense.” This time, Ruby’s head snapped around, looking at him. All the ghosts from his walk were accounted for. “While in the yard this afternoon, I met a last spirit. She had been a slave here, but she had great power. She loved Belle like her own child, and she…”

“Used voodoo to kill Gaston Thibodeaux.” Emma’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “Ursula de la Mar. She was Belle’s nanny.”

“Aye, that makes sense.” Killian fought the urge to reach for her hand. “And I think she cursed him and Maurice for what happened to Belle. For Thibodeaux separating her and Gold in death.”

Archie looked between the two of them. “So what do we do?”

“Now, we try to break the curse.”


	11. Down the Rabbit Hole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the pause, Sunday was a migraine and sleep day.

“We’re what?” Emma wasn't sure she had heard him correctly.  “That isn’t in the parameters of the show, Killian.”

She looked at Mary Margaret, who seems just as surprised as she was.  Killian was just shaking his head.  “Look, Swan.  If this was a normal haunting, I may have been able to move the ghosts on already, as part of the walk through.  But this is different.  These spirits, all of them, are trapped here.  Some may deserve that, but most of them don’t.  If I can help them…if WE can help them, we’ve an obligation to do it.”

Emma closed her eyes, trying to understand what he was asking.  “How do we even…”

“We have to find Gold, right?” Ruby’s voice was unexpected, and Emma jerked to look at her.  “If we find his grave, he could be buried with Belle, and Ursula would be satisfied.”

“That’s the hope, yes.” Killian suddenly sounded tired.  Emma looked at him and remembered the argument in the yard, earlier.  How this had been his reality his whole life.  Because looking at his sketches, knowing what she had dreamed, she couldn't fight reality anymore.  She believed him, about all of it.  The ghosts here, Graham, all of it.  And her heart hurt for him and how lonely this must be for him.

“Can you do that?” She looked at him, her hand moving of its own volition to rest on his arm, just above the brace of his prosthetic.  She felt him go still under her touch.  “Can you find his remains?”

“Not on my own, love.”  And there was something about that word from him now, something that didn't rankle the same as it had only days (had it been only days?) ago.  “But I think we might make quite the team, Swan.”

Well, fuck.

****

Mary Margaret halted the filming and they all took a break.  He watched as Emma stood and disappeared into the house, the sound of her footsteps telling him she’d disappeared upstairs.  He looked at Ruby, who gave him an eye roll and a nod, as if to say go after her, you lummox.

Rising from the table, he followed her, unsurprised to find her in what he thought of as Belle’s room.  Swan was standing at the same window, starring out at the woods.  He remained quiet as he watched her, not wanting to scare her.

“You aren't being subtle, Jones.”  She didn't turn to him, her eyes staying where they were.

“How did you know it was me, lass?” Killian walked further into the room, coming to stand next to her.

“Your cologne.”  She shot him a sardonic look.  “Detective, remember?”

“You're more than that though, aren't you?”  He kept his voice soft, the way he did when he spoke to the spirits of children.  “You always seemed to have a gut instinct, right Swan?  More than just your fabled lie detecting abilities.  You’ve known things you weren't supposed to your entire life, but you’ve chalked it up to your gut, or luck, or good police work.”

“So, what, you think I’m like you?” Emma mumbled.  She closed her eyes, and he saw her sag visibly.  “Great.  One more thing that makes me a freak.”

“Emma.”  This time, he couldn’t stop himself.  He stepped into the space in front of her and pulled her close.  “You aren’t a freak.”

“Yeah?  Then why does no one stay?”  She shuddered in his arms.  “My parents abandoned me on the side of the road as a baby.  My adoptive family sent me back when she got pregnant.  No foster placement would stick.  And then the first man I ever let myself love threw me under the bus to avoid criminal charges.  Maybe they all just knew what I didn’t.”

“Oh, love.”  His hand came up, stroking her hair.  “Swan, you are bloody brilliant.  A marvel.  You are strong, compassionate, and gifted, and anyone who would even think of leaving you is a fool.”

He felt her sigh softly against him.  “Right.”

“Look at me, Emma.”  He tilted her chin up, and she starred into his eyes.  “I’ve no reason to lie to you, love.  From the minute I met you, I knew you were something extraordinary.  And I promise you this: I’ll win your heart, and when I do, it won’t be because of any trickery.  It will be because you want me.”

Emma was staring at him now, a look of shock and wonder on her face.  He could almost feel how she was torn between wanting to stay and wanting to run.  And he would do whatever it took to make sure she didn’t run. 

Reluctantly, he released her and stepped back.  “What do you say, lass?  Will you help me try to put things to rights?”

Emma looked away from him, starring out the window again.  “I don’t know how.”  She seemed to close off, just a little.  “All I’ve had are these visions.”

“Probably because we’re at our most open when we sleep.  We aren’t guarding ourselves.”  He looked out the window.  “Emma, do you see anyone in the woods?”

“No.”  Emma was looking right where he was, and he could see Robert Gold’s spirit, gazing up at the window.  “I don’t see anything.”

“Take my hand.”  He held his right hand out to her, and after only a moment’s hesitation, she took it, lacing their fingers together.  “Close your eyes, and picture a door.”  Emma seemed dubious, but she let her eyes drift shut. “Picture yourself reaching out and opening the door.  Let it swing wide open.  When it’s wide, open your eyes and look at the woods.”

Emma quirked an eyebrow, but seemed to do what he said.  After a minute, she opened her eyes and looked back out the window.  Then she jumped half a foot.  “Holy shit!”  She let go of his hand as if scalded.  “I saw it.  Him.  There was a man in the woods.”  She paused, looking at him hard.  Then she took his hand again. 

“Does he disappear when you let go of my hand?”  Killian was intrigued.  This was truly happening.  Unlike Milah, there was no artifice, no con.  Emma had a gift.  He just wasn’t sure how it worked.

She nodded, eyes wide as she starred back at the tree line.  “I can see him.  And…there are others, aren’t there?  Walking around the property?”

“Yes.”  He felt her fingers tighten in his almost painfully.  “Can you feel…do you feel emotions from them, that aren’t your own?”

Emma glanced at him.  “No.  I don’t think so.  I just feel…shock.  And…and fear.”

“I’m right here, Swan.”  He squeezed back.  “You can close the door in your mind at any time, it should shut things out.  Or let go, if you need to.”

She almost seemed not to hear, instead focusing on the woods intently.  He was about to pull away when suddenly, a vision came into his mind.  They were running through the woods, tripping over roots and being torn at by brambles.  Emma, but not Emma, begging him to run, to get away, promising to find him. 

Letting go of each other and running, only to be tackled to the ground, beaten and kicked.  Pain and fear radiating through him, terror that they would find her, hurt her.

Then the horror, watching as they do, as they hurt her badly and being unable to help, tied and held, forced to watch, to see the hope in her eyes die.  Then the rope around his neck tightening, and the force of being yanked up, of strangling slowly, kicking and fighting until everything went black.

“Killian.  Killian!”  Emma’s voice came to him through the dark, pulling him up through inky blackness.  “Please, come back.”  And then her lips were pressed to his, air forcing into his lungs, and he choked, coughing and sputtering.  His eyes shot open, latching onto her green ones. 

“Swan?  What…happened?”  His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears, and Emma’s face swam before his, a mask of terror and grief.

“I saw it again.  Only this time, you were there, and when you collapsed, it pulled me back.”  She was shaking as her hand smoothed over his face.  “You weren’t breathing.”

He gapped at her for a moment.  It wasn’t the first time a manifestation had affected him physically.  Hell, it wasn’t even the first time this case.  But this… “Are you all right, love?”

Emma laughed a little hysterically.  “I wasn’t the one almost dead.”

Killian sat up, breathing hard.  His lungs still burned slightly.  “You needn’t worry, Swan.  My other best talent is for survival.” 

She hit him, then, slugging him in the shoulder.  “Asshole.”  Then she turned serious.  “What do we do, now?”

“It seems, love, that I am seeing the ghosts of the past.  And you are seeing the past itself.”  He stood, slowly, giving his spinning head time to adjust.  “Perhaps if we go into the woods together, we’ll find what we seek.”

“I saw that film.  Going into the woods doesn’t end well.”  Emma reached out, steadying him.

“Emma Swan, did you just make a Sondheim joke?”  Killian leaned into her touch, just a bit.

“Layers, Killian.”  Her voice was still a bit brittle, but the sense of humor was there.  “I have them.  Like an onion.”

“Lead on then, lass.”

*****

It was hard to say who was less in favor of the plan, once they had shared it, and Killian’s near death experience.  Ruby, Mary Margaret, and David all spoke over each other.

“Are you crazy, you could have been killed?!” Ruby argued.

“I’m not sure that the network would like this.  Or that our insurance would cover…” Mary Margaret added.

“It doesn’t sound safe, for any of us.”  David contributed.

“ENOUGH.”  Emma’s voice was commanding and authoritative, and Killian looked at her with a smile that spoke of awe and wonder.  “Here’s the thing.  We’re already in this.  The visions likely won’t stop for me, and if Killian is right, the dead will still be trapped here if we leave.  That makes it dangerous for Archie and Marco and August.  We promised them help.”

She felt Killian’s hand on her arm, letting her know he was with her on this.  “Emma’s right.  I can’t walk away, Ruby, you know that.”  He turned and looked at the other two.  “I… we understand this is outside the scope, and we don’t expect anything from the crew.  It doesn’t have to be filmed, and…well, Ruby’s the only thing like family I have left.  She won’t sue if something happens to me.”

“And I have no one.”  As the words left her mouth, though, Emma knew it wasn’t true.  She had the man standing beside her, and that thought scared her and thrilled her in equal measure.  “So, here’s the thing.  We’re going to do this.  Even if it’s just the two of us.”

“The three of us.”  Ruby’s voice came fierce and sure.  “If Killian’s in, so am I.”

Mary Margaret squared her shoulders.  “There should be a record.  I’m in, if the crew is comfortable with it.”

David glanced at Victor and Sean, who both nodded. “We’re in.”

Mary Margaret immediately snapped into logistics mode.  “Ashley, take Dr. Harper and the Booths.  Drive out into town and stay there until we call, okay?”

“Sure.”  Ashley took a set of keys and went to get her charges.

Killian and Emma smiled.  “Now,” she said, looking around.  “Let’s head out there and see if we can find a body.”


	12. Into the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearly there. Thank you to everyone who came along for the ride. Its been a lot of fun to write. And your comments are amazing.
> 
> Note: This chapter contains sexy times. :D Be forewarned.

All three cameras were rolling as Killian and Emma walked to the edge of the tree line. Mary Margaret and Ruby stayed back a little ways, ready to help if needed, but no wanting to interfere. Both women carried shovels from the garden shed near the house. Stopping, Killian glanced at Emma, then back into the trees where he could see the spirit of Robert Gold, waiting. “Ready, love?”

“As I’ll ever be.” Emma reached out and took his hand, closing her eyes and picturing the door again. She reached out in her mind and pulled it open, then stepped through. Opening her eyes, she gave a quiet gasp. “I see him.”

Together, the two of them stepped into the trees. Emma watched in awe as the spirit of the man moved through the trees, silent and ethereal. At one point, he passed through a small tree that clearly hadn’t been there that long, but made a wide berth for one that was clearly extremely old.   It was like he was frozen in time with his death, and he could only see what had been there when he was.

“Do we try to talk to him?” she asked quietly as they followed him deeper into the woods. She tripped a little over a tree root and felt Killian catch her.

“Not yet, love. I want to see where he goes.” They continued on, deeper into the trees, until they came to a clearing. Emma suddenly froze, stock still, pulling Killian back with her. “Swan?”

“It happened here.” She knows it in her own bones, has seen it over and over. She looked up to the ghost who was watching them curiously from the center of the clearing. “This is where it happened, isn’t it? Where Belle was hurt and you had to watch? Where they…where you died?”

“Belle.” His voice was ragged and raw, not unlike Killian’s had been when she had woken him earlier. “My sweet Belle. My fault. If I had been strong enough to walk away, she’d have lived.”

“She would have had to marry Thibodeaux.” Emma kept her hand on Killian’s. “Men like him…he would have likely killed her anyway.”

“But he hurt her. So badly. She was so scared.” The ghost seemed to be crying now, glittering tracks running down his face. “And I couldn’t save her.”

“Listen to me, mate.” Killian drew his attention. “She loved you. And when you love someone, really love them, you’d go to the ends of the earth for them. Or time.”

Emma felt her heart stutter in her chest, because he had glanced at her, looking solemn.

“What he did…Thibodeaux is at fault. Not you, and not Belle. We want to help you, mate. Help you be together, move on together.” Killian squeezed Emma’s hand. “Can you show us where you’re buried?”

The spirit looked back and forth between them. “I don’t know. God help me, I don’t know.”

Killian seemed to deflate. He had hoped… Suddenly Emma was tugging his hand, pulling him forward. “Lass?”

“I think…I think I know what to do.” She walked up until she stood right in front of the ghost. Her left hand was still clutching Killian’s right, so she raised her own right hand. “Can you put your hand to mine, Mr. Gold? I think…we might be able to see.”

Gold looked at her, and at the kind smile she was giving him, then glanced up toward the house. Turning her head, she could see the form of Belle standing in the window. Turning back, she had only a moment to brace herself before Gold’s hand pressed into hers.

The vision came hard and fast, yanking up into the air, lungs burning, legs, kicking, feeling like she was drowning. Pain, pain, pain, and then black nothing. Emma held on, her hand crushing Killian’s. Then she was standing in the clearing, but not herself. She was at the edge, and she watched as Thibodeaux stood up, bloody, over Belle’s body.

“He killed her. Do you understand?” His voice was hard and deadly as he looked at his two hired men. “He killed her and we hanged him for it on the sport.” Then Thibodeaux lifted Belle’s body, placing it over his shoulder. “Bury the bastard.”

She watched as two men stood near Gold’s body. One took his own knife and cut away most of the rope, leaving only the noose and the knot. The other took a pick axe and began digging into the loose, loamy ground beneath one of the trees. They took turns, digging and drinking whiskey from a flask, until a hole was deep enough to roll the body into. Once it was in, they used the blunt end and their hands, pushing soil back on top of it. When it was full, the one man mumbled something crude and walked away. When he was gone, the other paused.

“The lord is my shepherd.” His words drifted on the humid night air as he took his knife and carved a small cross into the trunk of the tree. When the cross and the prayer were done, he too walked away.

The ground bit into Emma’s knees as she collapsed. Killian was beside her, his hand still clasped tight in hers. She ached with grief and paid and sadness. Looking up, she saw the ghost looking at them. “Just a while longer. We’re going to get you back to Belle.” With that, Gold faded from view.

*****

It took them two hours of looking to find the cross. It was higher now by almost six feet, but the man who had done it had gouged it in deep and Emma was sure of it when she saw it. They shut down all but Sean’s camera and took turns, digging carefully down into the ground at the base of the tree. It was sweaty, dirty work, and they had stripped of jackets and sweaters, drinking water from the bottles Ruby had run to fetch for them. Finally, and an hour of digging, David made a strangled noise. “Stop.”

Emma moved, kneeling down next to where his shovel had hit. With her hand, she brushed dirt away carefully until they were looking into the empty eye sockets of a skull. She sat back on her heels. “Ruby, go up to the house and find a clean painter’s tarp. Mary Margaret, call Sheriff Spencer. Even if they are old, they are still human remains. Ask him to call Dr. Michaelson and see if she or someone in her department can come help with the archaeology.”

The others moved to do what she bid them, and David nodded at them before cutting Sean off from filming and encouraging the guys to go start packing down for the night. There was nothing else they could do as twilight fell.

“We did it.” Emma’s voice was quiet as she reached back down, brushing a little more dirt away from the skull. “We found him.”

Killian knelt down next to her. “You were bloody brilliant, Emma.” His hand reached out, brushing a sweaty curl away from her face. “Completely bloody brilliant.”

“She is powerful, this one.” The voice came from behind him, and he turned to find Ursula at the edge of the clearing.

“Love.” He took Emma’s hand and she turned, startling at the appearance of the dead woman.

“Ursula.” Emma’s voice was calm and strong, and Killian was so proud of her and how quickly she was adapting. “We’ve found Robert Gold.”

“Yes, you have child.” The woman smiled at her widely. “It has been a long time overdue.”

Killian kept his hand in hers, tethering her as she interacted with the ghost. “We have to follow proper channels, but I promise you, we will see him buried with her. But it’s time now to life your curse. Time to let everyone go.”

“I have your word, they will be together?” Ursula shifted her glance from Emma to Killian.

“On my honor, madam.” Killian looked the ghost in the eye, solemnly. “They’ll be together, and people will know the real story.”

At that, the vodun mambo threw back her head and laughed. “Good.” And then a burst of light emanated out from the trees, causing Emma and Killian to shield their eyes. When they looked up, the air shimmered as the ghosts on the property began to cross over.

They stood as Robert Gold materialized beside them, looking around in wonder. Then a figure appeared, running through the trees. “Robby?” she called.

“Belle! Oh, Belle!” He left them, running toward her. His arms came around her, pulling her close and kissing her soundly. “Oh, my love, how I have longed for you.”

“And I you.” Belle’s hands framed his face. “Let’s go home, darling.”

“Aye, my love. Let’s go home.” Robert Gold turned and looked back toward them one last time, and then the two of them shimmered and blinked out of site.

“I think they had the right idea.” Emma felt like a million years had passed since the morning. “We can’t do anything else tonight.”

“Aye, love.” Ruby entered the cleaning, carrying the tarp. Working together, they laid it over the grave and covered it on the edges with rocks. Then the three of them headed out of the woods and back to the house for the drive back to the hotel.

*****

Killian had showered and was laying on the bed in his room, mindlessly flipping through channels. He always felt empty and at loose ends after a job, and this was no different. Usually Ruby would hang with him, ordering some kind of spicy take-out and making him watch a dumb movie. Tonight, however, Ruby and Sean and Ashley and Victor had decided to go out on the town over in Baton Rouge. She had tried to talk him into it, but he was weary to his bones and he just wanted to decompress.

He was watching an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives he had seen at least three times before when there came a knock at the door. Standing, he moved to open it and was surprised to find Emma on the other side. She had been subdued on the drive in from the plantation, listening as Mary Margaret outlined Sheriff Spencer’s plan to come out and meet the dig team from LSU around lunch tomorrow. When they had gotten back to the hotel, she had disappeared into her room without a word. Now she stood before him in pajama pants and a loose t-shirt for the Boston Bruins.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, love?” He kept his voice friendly and a little teasing, but not too serious. He knew the signs of someone trying to pull away and he didn’t want to lose whatever ground he had gained with Emma today.

“Did you mean it?” He stepped aside to let her in and watched as she moved into the space between the TV and the bed.

“It’s been a long day, Swan, you’ll need to be more specific.” He let the door shut behind him, but didn’t throw the safety bar.

“You said…when you won my heart.” She sounded unsure. Of his statement, of his intentions, of the attraction he had felt from day one. “Did you mean that?”

And the look in her eyes knocked the air out of him. Because unless he was sorely mistaken, she wanted him to mean it. Wanted it immensely. “Aye.” His voice was thick and rough and he felt like the word had stumbled over his lips.

Emma searched his eyes for a long moment, then seemed to make a decision. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He started to ask, but then she was in his space, pulling his face down to hers. It wasn’t the kiss from the day before. That had been heat and dominance and control. This was a kiss of surrender and need and passion. Gentle and brutal, it stripped him of reason and sense as his hands came up, wrapping around her and pulling her tight against him.

She backed him into the wall and pushed her hands under his own t-shirt, raking her nails up his back until he broke things long enough to pull it up and over his head. Emma’s eyes were green fire as she did the same, leaving her bare from the waist up. “Blood hell, lass. You’re a vision.”

“Shut up.” And then she was kissing him again as he turned them, sitting on the bed and pulling her down to straddle his lap. He was already half hard, but the way she ground down onto him made him ache and go taunt, his hips rutting up into hers.

He kissed her jaw, sucking and nibbling on the way to that place below her ear, then down her neck. One had came up and covered her breast, stroking and kneading it until her back arched and she was mewling.

“Gods, woman. I want to take my time with you.” His voice was jagged and broken as he panted against her skin.

“Later.” Emma rolled against him. “Condom?”

He reached for his wallet, pulling out the one he knew Ruby had put in it, which she changed periodically because she at least was an eternal optimist. He knew she had also stashed more in his luggage. Checking the date, he held it up to her.

Emma took it, climbing off of him, which made him groan with the loss. She didn’t stay gone long, though, stripping her own pants and then his boxers. She pushed him back onto the bed and he followed where she was leading. In a trice, she had rolled the condom onto his hard length, and then straddled him again.

Before he could think, Emma sank down, sheathing him in one down thrust. “Christ,” he groaned. “Emma, love, so good.”

Emma was quieter, moaning her pleasure as she began to move. The rhythm she set was punishing and almost brutal, and he knew he wasn’t going to last long. It had been a very long time since Milah. Rolling his hips up, he made her cry out as he deepened the angle, sitting up and driving into her harder. His lips found one hard, dusky nipple and he licked and sucked at her as his fingers found the place over where they were joined. A minute or two more, and Emma came around him, the contractions of her release sparking his own.

They lay there, sweaty and sated for a while before Killian stood to go to the bathroom. He cleaned himself up, and brought her a warm wash cloth, then moved to lay beside her on the bed. Emma sighed and snuggled against him, her eyes drooping. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, love, truly.” He pressed a kiss to her temple as she started to drift off. “Sweet dreams, Swan.”

The sound of her even breathing, the gentle beat of her heart, those were enough to drag him under.

In the morning, when he opened his eyes, she was gone.


	13. Anywhere You Go, I'll Follow You Down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We've reached the end. Thank you so much for taking this journey with me. I may pop back to this universe at some point and visit, we'll see. Propmts are always welcome and considered.
> 
> I can be found on tumblr at adventureofhistorygirl.
> 
> Thanks to Adam and Eddy for the world. And thank you all for you comments.
> 
> There are a few authors notes at the end.

Killian couldn’t quite understand. Last night, she had been right there with him, open and taking the lead. She had come to him. And now, this morning, she was gone. He rubbed his head when the desk clerk said she had checked out and caught a cab to the airport early. He sighed, and went back upstairs to find Ruby. Only to have Victor answer his friend’s door. “Bloody hell.”

Instead, he went to Mary Margaret’s room and knocked. The producer was alone this morning, and was surprised when he shared the news with her. She tried calling Emma’s cell, but the call went straight to voicemail. She patted Killian’s arm sympathetically, and then suggested they get ready for the day. They were going to go out to the plantation to see (and film) the exhumation, and then catch evening flights back to New York.

Killian was quiet, and he knew he was worrying Ruby. But Emma’s absence weighed on him like a millstone around his neck. He only half paid attention as they met the dig team, and watched as more of the skeleton was unearthed. The forensic anthropologist from the university declared the bones to be over 100, so Sheriff Spencer signed their care over to Archie as the land owner and left. The woman also noted the signs of violent death, cracked ribs and a fractured arm in a defensive posture, and the tell-tale signs of hanging. Archie spoke briefly, stating he intended to have the bones interred with Isabella French over at the parish cemetery as soon possible.

As soon as the filming was done, he shook hands with Archie and the restoration guys, then climbed back into the SUV for the ride to the airport. Ruby took his hand part way there, squeezing it, but he just looked out the window and remembered wild green eyes and the feeling of her skin under his hand. How had things flipped again so quickly?

Once they were back in New York, Mary Margaret explained post-production. There was a studio in Boston they could use for any voice-over work they might need. In the meantime, she was going to do a rough cut of the pilot and let Regina show it to the network. But Killian found he didn’t care. Emma still wasn’t answering phone calls, and he was worried for her. At this point, he just wanted to go home.

*****

Emma had taken a red-eye straight to Boston. Unlocking her front door, she stepped over the pile of junk mail and circulars, by passing everything until she was in her room. Then she stripped off her clothes and crawled into the sheets. And she slept, for almost 24 hours.

When she woke up, she was starving and heart sore, and she had fifty-two missed texts and twenty-three phone calls. She knew she was probably in breach of contract, and that Regina probably had the right to fire her and withhold payment or something. But she had panicked. She had woken up in the bed next to Killian, and it had felt good. Right. Like she had finally, finally come home. And she had nearly had a panic attack. Because every time she had let herself believe that she had found something good and safe and hers like that, life had ripped it from her.

So Emma had done the only thing she could think to do: she got the hell out of there. And now, she was hiding in Boston. The first day back, she ordered in delivery from her favorite Indian food place, shut her phone off, turned on Netflix, and mainlined some dramedy about Norse gods from New Zealand. On the second day, she had put on her trainers and her running shoes and her shorts and she had run until her knee was on fire and her lungs burned and she had to take a taxi to get back to her apartment.

Now, on the third day, she knew that she needed to suck it the hell up and go into the office. She had been gone almost a month, and if she was going to keep things going, she needed to go find some kind of work. So she had showered, and she had dressed, and she had taken her car and driven over, parking in the back lot and then climbing the stairs up to her floor because the shitty lift was broken again (still?). What she had not expected to find was a man in black jeans and motorcycle boots, a grey waistcoat and a charcoal shirt, with a black leather jacket and artfully tousled hair sitting on the floor outside her office door, reading from a beat up paper back.

“What the actual hell?” She sounded harsher than she meant to, and he flinched a little bit.

“Good morning, I’m looking for the proprietor of E. Swan Investigations.” Killian stood, reaching up and scratching that spot behind his ear that was his nervous tell. Emma sighed and unlocked her office door, not at all surprised when he followed her in.

“Killian.”

“You see, my partner has gone missing.” His eyes were wide and blue and nothing but honest as he looked at her across the desk. “She’s brilliant and beautiful and we make one hell of a team. But she’s broken, and I don’t think she sees what I see in her. But I don’t think I can do the thing we do together without her.”

Emma sat heavily. “Look, Killian, I’m not…I can’t…I don’t know how to do this.”

“Ghost hunting? Because you’re a natural there, Swan.” He gave her that blinding smile, and she fought the urge to smack him. Or kiss him.

“You know what I mean.” She closed her eyes tight. “Everyone I ever loved has left me.”

“I’ve not done much better, Swan.” And that was also truth. She knew that. “But here’s the thing. I’m not going anywhere. I will be with you until the world ends or death takes me or you throw me out on my ear. But I can’t do this without you now, Emma. I’ve already told Regina I won’t do it without you.”

Emma opened her eyes and looked into his. They were guileless as a summer sky. And in that moment, she knew there was no going back either.

“What about Ruby?” She knew the other woman was an important part of his life.

“Ruby will always be there. And her role is as needed as yours will be, if we keep on as we did this time.” Then he smiled wickedly. “At least, until Victor steals her away.”

Emma cocked an eyebrow. “What happened, after I left?”

“Let me buy you breakfast, Swan, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

*****

It had been Killian’s idea to fly back down for the internment. The pilot had been picked and since then, they had been busy traveling. Four more properties, four more stories. Only now, in between, Killian and Emma could most often be found in her apartment, reading and relaxing and recharging.

Now, they stood in the little parish cemetery, at the French family crypt. Inside, three sarcophaguses lined the three walls.   Isabella’s stood in the back, open and empty. There were no French relatives, so the University had petitioned to remove Belle’s remains for study with Robert’s.   Their findings had established that it would have taken a man much larger than Robert Gold had been to inflict the fatal slice to Belle’s neck. Combined with the slave narratives and the findings in the grave site, a new version of the La Belle Maison story was now being told. Robert Gold was no longer vilified to history.

Today, a new casket, cherry wood with brass fittings, was carried into the crypt as a priest said the funeral mass. Inside, lying together, were the bones of Isabella French and Robert Gold. Killian held Emma’s hand, with Ruby and Victor behind them, as it was lowered into the marble enclosure. Archie Hopper stepped forward and took a jar of earth taken from the clearing, sprinkling it over the lid. Then the others filed through, adding yellow roses. At last, the cemetery crew lifted the heavy stone lid and set it in place. On the top, it now read:

Isabella French

1830-1850

Robert Gold

1810-1850

Beloved

Smiling, the four of them walked out of the crypt together. Later that night, they had been invited by Professor Michaelson to a watch party for the episode at her home in Baton Rouge. Archie and Marco and August were all there.

Emma was sitting with Killian’s left arm draped around her shoulders, his right hand tracing patterns on her knee. She smiled across the room as Professor Michaelson spoke animatedly with August which Archie and Marco discussed some issue with the ongoing renovations at La Belle Maison.

Just then, Ruby piped up. “Shh, it’s starting!”

The opening of the show came on. From the screen, a montage of Killian doing site walks commenced, and his voice over began. “My name is Killian Jones, and I see dead people.”

“So cheesy,” she whispered. Killian shushed her.

“With the help of my friend, Ruby, I talk to dead people, and they talk back. But there’s only one way to know if my findings are real. I rely on my partner.”

Now it was Emma’s turn to blush as a montage of her started. “I’m Emma Swan. I’m a former Boston Homicide Detective and Private Investigator. And I know that every person, every property, has a story. I use my investigative skills to discover those stories. But Killian and I never speak.”

Killian’s voice chimed in. “We never speak during the investigation. Not until the very end, when we’ll try to help spirits move on, or let the owners know that they should get out.”

Emma’s voice came again. “These are the dead files.”

The title card came up, then went to commercial. Both of them started cracking up.

“You guys, that is so cool.” Ruby was smiling and laughing too. “Cheesy as heck, but cool.”

“The work you do is amazing, though.” Archie was smiling. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“We’re glad we could help, mate.” Killian smiled as Emma leaned in to him. Just then, things came back from commercial.

“Thank you.” Emma’s voice was soft as the others focused back on the show. “For believing in me.”

“Always, Swan.” Killian pressed a kiss to her temple again. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The French family plantation is based on the appearance of Ashland, also known as Belle Helene, in Geismer, Louisiana. But the resemblance ends there. To my knowledge, there were now horrible murders at the historical Ashland.
> 
> The show Dead Files is one of my favorite things to watch when I am cooking or doing crafts. I am a big fan of Steve and Amy, even if I am not sure I buy everything on the show wholeheartedly.
> 
> However, as Shakespeare said, There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, then are dreamt of in your philosophy.
> 
> Thank you again for reading. I hope it's been half as much fun to read it as I've had writing it.


End file.
